Regina Spektor Is A Lil' Peanut!

[Photo by slicknick]

Seriously. She’s adorable. Her gracious smile and warm, open hearted approach to her fans makes her emotionally charged music transcend the stage and sparkle in her post-show charm as she signed autographs at Soundfix to dutiful fans who’d already queued since 8am to score a spot in the super cramped, somewhat controversial backroom at the indie-record spot. This, people, is why music is wonderful. People get up early, they sit on the concrete with their paperbacks and their canteens, taking turns for pee-breaks (not like Papa P.) and bagel runs. There was a buzz on North 11th street before the doors opened, as the line stretched ever backwards towards the river.

Fan Stephanie Crisan was all smiles afterwards,

“The show was short, only a half hour, but it was so worth it. This is the fourth time I’ve bought the same album, but if it means I can get a free poster, and an opportunity for an autograph, twelve bucks is a small price to pay.”

I watched as Spektor giggled her way through sharpie signatures, her rouge painted grin a throwback to a lounge singer in the twenties, and as I entered back into the Williamsburg sunshine there was something nostalgia in the air. Big sunglasses, the distant sound of music from a Earth Day festival in McCarren Park, pink bicycles and twenty-somethings strewn fashionably about the lawn. Was it just my imagination, or was this East Coast inception of Height Ashbury?