Last night, I dreamt about vampires. I was in a big quasi-Victorian room like an old-fashioned laboratory with card cabinets and nooks and doorways. Most of the dream consisted of me locking windows because it was going to be night soon, and we had to make sure that the vampires couldn’t get in.

But in true horror movie fashion, I forgot one section of the windows, and at nightfall the vampires came in anyway. They were a bunch of quaffed cool-looking people, the kind of 20-somethings who go to LA clubs to snort coke. A couple of celebrities were with them, and I remember thinking, “Wow, I didn’t know Cameron Diaz was a vampire.”

The vampires were clearly going to eat me, but at the moment they were too busy deciding who was going to hook up with whom to bother, giving me an opportunity to go into the kitchen and grab a knife. Brandishing it high, I ran out and stabbed my knife in one of the vampires, and … nothing happened. The knife handle just stuck out of its chest.

“I thought knives were supposed to kill you,” I said.

“Only stainless steel knives,” said the vampire.

“That knife is stainless steel,” I said.

The vampire rolled its eyes. “Obviously not,” it said.

I took the knife out of its chest and realized that the problem was that it was coated stainless steel, which blocked the stainless steel properties from affecting the vampire’s heart. So I ran into the kitchen to get a metal scrubber to rub the coating off the knife, but one of them followed me in there to kill me. Luckily, my favorite tomato knife was in the kitchen, and so I stuck that in the vampire instead. It worked, but instead of poofing like they do in Buffy, the vampire bled all over me like Tom Cruise does in Interview with a Vampire when Kirsten Dunst stabs him. As the blood and vomit went everywhere, all I could think about was how my pants were dry-clean only and this was going to be annoying to get out.

Then this delivery driver unlocked the front door with a key to give me something I had ordered–thus letting in more vampires–so I told him to LOCK THE DAMN DOOR. And that’s when I remembered that I could levitate things with my mind. What a relief. Instead of stabbing the vampires, I could just levitate the knives and shoot them at them, stabbing them in the heart and avoiding blood and also danger.

Just as the dream was getting good with me getting to save the day with my levitating powers, I woke up. I discovered I was squeezing my hands into fists, probably because I believed they had knives in them. I don’t know how long I had been doing this, but I’m guessing a long time. They are kind of sore now.

This is the second time this week I have caught myself making fists during sleep. So maybe it isn’t the writing that’s causing the sore hand problem after all.

For awhile, everyone told me I would like The Decemberists. Even articles describing the band’s audience described, um, me: a former English major, someone from Portland, someone who likes stories and indie rock. But when I tried the band out, I didn’t like them at first. Every song seemed to be a guy singing along to acoustic guitar, which contrary to popular belief is not the kind of music I like.

But then last year, I heard their most recent album, “The Crane Wife.” It won me over. I liked the album so much, last Wednesday I dragged Kyle to see them at The Warfield in San Francisco.

The Decemberists sound every bit as good live as they do on their CDs. In fact, the slower songs may even have more energy live. Or maybe it’s that their songs make more sense when you see them performed. By watching, you not only hear how intricate the songs are, you see it. The band is known for using lots of instruments, and there were quite a few on the stage–different keyboards/pianos, an upright bass, a melodica, an accordion, etc.–that the musicians switched around throughout the performance, bringing out layers to the songs that I hadn’t noticed before.

The band has good showmanship, too. For the Shankill Butchers–a song about a serial-killer butcher–lead singer Colin Meloy had the lights go all red to set the mood. At other times, the lights were aqua and with the rippling keyboards and guitar, the audience in the pit looked like underworld creatures looking up at the sun. The band also had audience participation for 16 Military Wives, but Meloy handled it so casually you didn’t feel like you were being coerced into a sing-along–a pet peeve of mine–and so it was fun when the entire audience alternated for the La-de-das for the song. At the end, one by one, the band members went into the audience, and a 12-year-old kid jumped up on the empty stage to play the drums and the guitar. The stagehand ran out as if to chase him off the stage, but instead tightened the kid’s the guitar strap, which got a laugh from the audience. After the kid sang a song and jumped off the stage, the band got back on and did their final numbers.

And here’s the thing: As much as I love music, part of me has a hard time sitting through a concert. This is true in everything from a symphony to my very favorite bands–something about sitting and listening to music makes me antsy. So this is one of few concerts I have ever been to that held my attention all the way through. I was entertained and impressed. If you like The Decemberists, go see them live.

Here’s When The War Came off The Crane Wife, which you can buy here.

This weekend, Kyle and I drove to Portland to see Sleater-Kinney’s last concert. The band, which is one of my favorites, is breaking up. It’s a bummer for a lot of reasons, among them:

1. They just released their best album ever
2. They are one of the few bands today creating music that is politically relevant, but still interesting and fun
3. They appeal to both men and woman, a rarity for an all-women band
4. They rock

We drove up on Friday, spent Saturday in the city, and drove back on Sunday. Since it’s a nine-hour drive to Portland, Kyle and I spent a lot of time in the car. But it was worth it. The concert was excellent and I got to go to Powell’s, where I bought several books, including a biography on Eugene O’Neill, the play Medea, and maps of Rome and Florence for our upcoming trip to Italy. I also discovered that I still get mad at Oregon drivers and that smoked trout goes really well with eggs.

(Corin Tucker, Janet Weiss, Carrie Brownstein)

Even though I’ve listened to Sleater-Kinney since college, I’ve only seen them three times in concert, twice in San Francisco and once in Portland. It took seeing them live to really understand how good the band is. If I hadn’t, it probably wouldn’t have sunk in that Janet Weiss is one of the best drummers, ever. She is flat-out phenomenal. She is also possibly one of the most unphotogenic people in the world. In all the pictures I’ve seen of her, she looks 45 and tired. In real life, she has a child-like, wide-eyed face that I guess the camera hates. Beyond all that, she is juggling so many balls as a drummer that I find her mesmerizing.

Before the band went on, Eddie Vedder came out on stage and played a folk song about the war and then sang “You Belong To Me” with Janet. He summed up the evening by saying that he had always wished he could have seen The Beatles, Jimi Hendrix, Keith Moon, etc’s last shows, but he was grateful to be there to see Sleater-Kinney’s.

The band absolutely rocked throughout the show and two encores, going out with a definite bang. At the end, they played a choked-up version of “One More Hour” with lyrics like, “in one more hour / I will be gone / in one more hour / I’ll leave this room.” I left at 12:30 a.m., sweaty and tired, and feeling it was one of the best shows I’ve ever been to.

I’m very curious why the band broke up. It probably has to do with Corin having two small kids and their being together for 11 years and besides, bands don’t do well when they stay together forever. But to go out at the top of your game is also a little sad.

I still hold out hope that they may reunite after awhile. Or go on to make something even better.

Listen to Sleater-Kinney here.