A piano. A black and white video at three am. Fiona Apple on love line. A recovered development in homage to the United States fattest president. Wedged between the memory of the Sarah McLaughlin's shorn locks, and the coming sentimental angst of the Morrissey show, the Taft Theater recently hosted Fiona Apple, and the lesser known Laika.

Arriving late enough to establish I had no "press" credentials, wine vendors and beer salesman were happy to serve no more than two drinks at a time to a mixed crowd of suspiciously vicarious parents without children. Ushers, instead of their protégé, the bouncer, stood at doors saying "I can help you here." I was told to go that way. If you are familiar with the Taft, you understand it is a very ornate venue. An alternative to the other local music venues, it has recently been host to a diverse set of acts that have passed through town. Acts that have decided Bogarts is too small, but the recently renovated Crown, is much too big. Before the days of unplugged, theaters were built for sound. There are some things opera glasses can't see.

Walking in half way through the Laika set, now touting their Sounds of the Satellites set, an usher informed me there would be no smoking. No use in staging a protest here. "Go that way he said, to the other side of balcony." Finally, finding my seat, a man who looked like Kurt Cobain I'd seen in line earlier and his friend were sitting where I was supposed to be. The usher made him aware of this as I proceeded to tell the guy I didn't care, I wasn't going to hassle him for the seat. After all they were balcony seats. The best seats by any standard of the formal period they intended to serve. Wait what is it that I see? Woman in Rock? On channel 25---people give this channel a bad rap. And by the way---what does this have to do with Fleetwood Mac? Who doesn't have the album Rumours? At this point in the show, no one could tell you.

Blonde and blurred, the singer for Laika occasionally floated behind the microphone to mutter unintelligibly, then stepped back to let live bongos and pickled guitars resonate. Laika's breed of music---described by NME as "light years ahead of the pack" could safely be said as so. The pubescent crowd could not be happier. As it usually goes with new acts headlining a tour, the opening act deserves the credit they get for no one knowing one damn song. Laika's delicate atmospherics, tangible house rhythms, along with the way they seemed to dissolve into the stage was refreshing. As they introduced themselves and left the stage, other secrets were lingering. The resemblance of Cobain informed me he had forgot his ID. Stepping outside for a cigarette, and to sop off the last of beer he paid for, the man described himself as Greg, and told me he was from Lexington. As the conversation moved from this show to Apple's last, (the night before in Louisville) he explained to me that his friends that made the show said Apple was drunk. He hoped of course that she would not be tonight. Of course he also said "everything" when I asked him what he liked about Fiona Apple. I didn't tell him I didn't buy his ID story because he also said he got pulled over on his way to Cincinnati. No drugs.

Performers seen in hindsight often suffer the critical trappings of their initial allure. If she had been drunk the night before, no one else would have told you as she took the stage wearing alternate layers of sweat clothes and formal apparel. Although the problems of having one album will harbor any "new act", Apple, accompanied by her ensemble, quickly took to shaking the crowd's hand for liking the songs that are not played on the radio from her debut album Tidal. Handling the tracks with the vindictive emotional depth that so many seem to admire, the set seemed burdened. Her accompanying musicians, although adding dimension to what would have otherwise been a sampled track, often seemed riddled as to diffusing into something that wasn't muzak, or coffee house jazz. Apple's stage performance itself was amiable, and without any more than usual petitioning. Unlike Tori Amos, she easily took herself before the crowd without blundering the ideal of her wontedly personal lyrics. Surprisingly, despite any stigma that may befall her for the use of piano, it is not a new instrument by any means. Her speech for the night was about tact, and how to use it. Her best examples, searingly rejuvenated covers carrying the likes of Jimmy Cliff and Hendrix to an intensity, dead or alive, they most likely would appreciate.

Apple is not ready for her one trick pony, but neither should she be desirably discarded. Her remarks on love line about music being able to open and allow a person to feel their complete emotional spectrum is endearing. And despite her transparent insistence that all music is another way to see it, people seem comfortable getting used to intuition. This was the Taft, and no matter how untrue it seems, Tesla actually invented unplugged, not Marconi. And yes, video did kill the radio star.