Beach Books


The Books gently manipulated their folk on Earth Day (Malibu Performing Arts Center, a long, congested drive on the first rainy April day in Southern California in 10,000 years to an audience of receptive Angeleans ushered to their seats by glassy-eyed surfers. Parking was $10 ("It's Malibu!"), and Paul De Jong's skeletronic bass was funny-looking. "It's like you're wearing headphones out there," Zammuto said, referring to the sound. It's like the old guy next to us was snoring which we weren't sure wasn't a performance component of the show at first, especially after his wife dropped her chain-strapped purse perfectly in sync with the next song. It was pleasant. Everyone was polite. We drank chardonnay. They played these neat videos of waving grass, rippling puddles and people doing overdubs for suspenseful B-movies. People were giggling and shit. We enjoyed it, we think, and thought about submitting a list to McSweeney's, and then we read this while we drove back to LA and thought to ourselves, HOLY FUCK THE ENTIRE WORLD HAS LOST THE FUCKING THREAD.

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Beach Books