Last night I had the good fortune to catch the New Pornographers on their second sold-out night at the 930 Club. I remember quite clearly the last time they came around to DC two years ago, because we showed up to claim our tickets at will call and they did not exist. A friend had purchased a pair months earlier, but upon immediately returning home a few blocks away, we discovered that her credit card had been refunded a few days after the purchase. No tickets to be had. Feeling sorry for ourselves, we looked at future tour dates. In August, the were co-headlining at the Electric Factory in Philadelphia with perennial favorite Andrew Bird. Perfection! We convinced two friends to make the sojourn with us and headed out one Saturday afternoon, picking a friend up from work and heading north on 95 with a car full of snacks and enough nervous excitement to blow the windows out. We arrived just as Andrew Bird was taking the stage, and the New Pornographers followed with an incredible live set.
The two downsides: The Electric Factory is HUGE. It sort of has a derelict American Gladiators soundstage feel to it. Railing and tiers surrounding a huge pit. The 930 Club has a similar layout but is much more intimate. The fire capacity is just under 1200. We had a pretty clear shot from the railing at the back of the venue, but Carl Newman felt so far away! Other downside: She Of The Flowing Red Hair, Neko Case, and He Of The Cartoon Voice, Dan Bejar, were not present. The chance of seeing them on a New Pornographers tour is historically rare, but for their fifth album, Together, I guess they decided to step it up. So they were there, and we were maybe twenty feet from the stage overhead, and everything was magic: when you see them live, you can’t remember if they just happen to be playing every song that is a favorite, or if they have no bad filler songs.
Other theories for why it was so awesome: DC is Carl Newman’s favorite city to play in. Additionally, NPR was there to record the show for All Songs Considered. I wonder if having Bob Boilen watching you perform is like having some sort of performance for royalty: there will be no dissapointing, or else. Additional theory: when they play, they are so awesome that they create a black matter vortex that shapes the venue into a giant rocketship and launches it into space! That is sort of what their shows feel like. You’re on a rocketship with your friends, and you are leaving earth and might never come back because this trip was very sudden–you didn’t even bring an extra pair of socks. But who cares, because an awesome band is playing and you’re all smiling at each other like lunatics, right?
Speaking of lunacy, I read this disturbing Newsweek article yesterday about the cumulative effects of sleep deprivation.
…Americans are getting less sleep than they did in the past. A 2005 National Sleep Foundation poll found that Americans averaged 6.9 hours of sleep per night, which represents a drop of about two hours per night since the 19th century, one hour per night over the past 50 years, and about 15 to 25 minutes per night just since 2001.
Okay, disconcerting. But this is worse:
Unfortunately, we are not very good at perceiving the detrimental effects of sleep deprivation. Researchers at the University of Pennsylvania restricted volunteers to less than six hours in bed per night for two weeks. The volunteers perceived only a small increase in sleepiness and thought they were functioning relatively normally. However, formal testing showed that their cognitive abilities and reaction times progressively declined during the two weeks. By the end of the two-week test, they were as impaired as subjects who had been awake continuously for 48 hours.
Have you ever been awake for 48 hours? I haven’t. I’ve been awake for around 37, 38 hours, and let me tell you – you get stupid. You start seeing things. Flow of thought is a total logjam. Everything hurts. No wonder it’s one of the oldest torture techniques in the book.
While I am hesitant to put a great deal of stock in one study, total, this is sort of a wake up call for my own sleeping habits. I think that probably since high school I’ve operated on a burn, burn, burn, burn the candle at both ends sort of schedule for four or five nights in a row, and then crash once the weekend arrives. Surely, much like my penchant for exercising my adrenal system at full tilt to get through daunting projects, this is unsustainable. I like to think of myself as very productive, and disciplined when it counts. I wonder how much my work output would improve if I made a steadfast, conscious effort to get eight hours of sleep every night of the week, instead of depleting my sleep bank and then fillin’ it back up once or twice a week. And, how much more would I enjoy said work, if I don’t have to put any effort into combating the effects of fatigue?
I write more clearly when I’m not fatigued. That may seem like an obvious statement, but I also write better (or so I percieve) when I’ve got a bit of adrenaline on my side, which you think would be counter-intuitive. There’s a careful balance there: just enough so that my focus is sharpened and distractions vying for my attention are obliterated in the periphery, but not so much that I’m jittery and my thoughts begin to leap around in a cyclical, unconstructive manner. So that’s my cocktail of choice: a decent amount of rest and a bit of self-imposed stress (like a deadline) to work under. Coffee, while “getting me in the mood,” is not a suitable replacement for the adrenaline that comes from telling yourself, “Okay, crunch time.”
Well this is crunch time. Time to crush sleep! In reasonable, regular amounts. I’ll let you know how this little experiment goes.
