Nick Urata guzzles the rest of his merlot on stage and bangs the head of his guitar into the souzaphone.



This is how Devotchka's music makes me feel:



Reduced to that mulled electric, again. A sort of red-colored comatose. (Lovely, lying wasted on the bed, slave-caught, invasively wired, warmed) Cider, pine, tinder, kerosene, hickory, dust: steeped and drafting up, evasive in origin, heady in consequence. (Heard and drunk and wondering)

"Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake and dress them in warm clothes again.
How it was late,
and no one could sleep
the horses running until they forget they are horses.
It's not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,
it's more like a song on the policeman's radio,
how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days
were bright red, and every time we kissed
there was another apple
to slice into pieces.
Look at the light through the window pain.
That means it's noon, that means
we're inconsolable.
Tell me how this, and love too, will ruin us.
These, our bodies, possessed by light.
Tell me we'll never get used to it."

-Richard Siken