Schnitz'ed

Last night, I went to watch Jose Gonzales play at the Schnitz, AKA the Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall. I'm not a rabid fan—I don't know much about him. Still, I was charmed by the show. That guitar of his wafted up through the hall like a summer breeze. Plus, what is it about the Swedes? Love the way they talk English—they make it sound better than we do. Yes, love their sweet lilting accent and their friendly, funny little unassuming ways.

This happened to be my first time to the Schnitz. It's a Portland landmark, a regal type of place built in 1928 where symphonies and philharmonics and such play. I felt really good sitting up there in the nosebleeds, cozy and comfortable et cetera, bathed in the soft warm light and surrounded by all the filigree and other shapes created for no other reason than to be beautiful.

Did y'all know, by the way, that the place first opened as a vaudeville movie house? Not very bourgeois, huh? I support watching smut in a theater of this caliber.