Placebo>Greece

I had to attend a funeral. Duty compelled me (this is pre-Kant). I was eighteen and Placebo was playing at Mississippi Nights, St. Louis, MO. My friends informed me of the lead-singer’s intoxicated state. I was jealous. I wanted to witness someone else’s transcendental exhaustion (on the road, I hear, is hard on the body). Instead, I witnessed lifelessness. Anonymous lifelessness. Death holds few revelations for me—or at least reveals few. I’ve looked, and I fear if there’s nothing, then there’s nothing. I’ve deduced the hell out of nothing, but the sum keeps coming up zero.

Placebo, on the other hand, is alive and well. I finally saw them perform. Too late. They were playing at The Metro, Chicago, and Dan Wren was still a house photographer—he got my girlfriend Sara and I in for free. At 22, I felt like the oldest person there. “When did the crowd become so young?” I wondered. Then my initial interest occurred to me: it’s always been this way.

In Greece they love Placebo. They play them in the grocery stores, on TV, in the cafes and the bars. The Greeks are impressed I know the words. I’m impressed they know the band. My experiences in Messolonghi (Μεσολογγίου) have always implied a lack of musical taste. But there’s a small bar on the island of Sifnos (Σίφνος) where the music is new, old, and good. Placebo is neither old nor new, and it’s not especially good either. But it’s better than I’d expect. What’s more interesting though is the age of the listener. They’re not kids. They’re adults. They bought that first album when I did. We were on the same plane for a moment. Ten years ago.