SHARING THE SHOWS
So it’s all text for this post since I forgot to snap a picture of the band (it was a long week).
So after a long bus ride home from DC, a nap, and a fatty meal of wings and a cheeseburger, I was ready to rock. This time, Maggie, Shannon, Gary, Dave, Dean, Beth, and Rusty accompanied me to the show. Solo shows are awesome, but it’s always nice being able to rock out with your close friends in tow (in my opinion, anyway). As we went in, Maggie commented on how empty it was. “More room to dance,” was my response. We concluded that since it was 4/20 (St. Patrick’s day for potheads), a lot of other bands were competing for an audience that night. And there were plenty: Donna the Buffalo in Virginia Beach, Tennessee Jed right next door at Tradition’s, Blind and Dirty somewhere in Williamsburg. Others might be home doing bong hits for Jesus and watching Cheech & Chong (there was a woman at the show with an Up in Smoke T-shirt). I used the superawesome erasable red pen Nicole gave me the night before to take my notes, and I may have to use it for all of my shows. The band opened with what I think was “Mountain Jam.” Maggie yelled for “Blue Sky,” and the band obliged. Gary, in his continuation of our Special Guest joke, proclaimed, “These guys are pretty special.” I responded, “They sure are” before yelling “Special Guest” to nobody’s attention. They went into “Southbound,” “Black Hearted Woman,” “Trouble No More,” “Southbound,” and “Midnight Rider.” I had drunk my Diet Snapple too quickly prior to the show and had some hiccups as she, Shannon, and I were walking over to the venue. “How are you hiccups?” Maggie asked. “They’re gone,” I responded. “Is there anything music CAN’T do?” They went into “Every Hungry Woman” and concluded the first set with “Whipping Post,” a tune relatable to anybody who’s ever worked in a crummy job or been in a shitty relationship without any escape plans. We talked about walking over to Traditions and seeing Tennessee Jed, but that venue closes early so Rusty informed us they were finished. Being quite exhausted from running around DC, sleeping in a hostel, and a long bus ride, I decided to walk back to my apartment for some quiet time (that’s the nice thing about living a two-minute walk from the venue; if I need a break, I can get it at home). I lay down for 15 minutes and then walked back just in time for the beginning of Set #2. They opened up the second set with “Ain’t Wastin’ Time No More” before going into “Stand Back” and “One Way Out.” Maggie commented that the new guitar player, Willie Wilson, looked like the Grateful Dead’s Pigpen in his cowboy hat. During “Dreams,” I witnessed an ominous staring contest between two concertgoers which looked like it was about to turn into a shoving match. “Soulshine” was next; after that, Brian Fones, the lead singer, said something about rumors the Boathouse was closing (untrue). He then counseled us to spread positivity, not negativity. “In Memory of Elizabeth Reed” was next, which included a nice jam. “You Don’t Love Me” was next, and this is where my critique comes in. While I was in the bathroom, Fones announced that in honor of 4/20, the band would channel the Dead (Maggie informed me of this later). I’d dig it. Wilson went off on his own riffs for about 10 minutes; he’s certainly a talented player, but I was already getting exhausted, and most of the audience had left. Perhaps they intended this as a reward, but I would have preferred it earlier in the set. The Dead had a structure to their shows, which I read a while back in an article I can’t locate as I write. The first set would consist of shorter tunes. During Set 2, they’d start to build into the longer jams before going into “Drums/Space,” and toward the end, they’d go back into the shorter tunes to take the audience home. At any rate, that’s my opinion. I was about to leave after the jam, and as I headed toward the door, I heard the opening of “Ramblin’ Man.” Ehhh, what’s another song? I can sleep in tomorrow, I thought. So I did.
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So, the last two days in DC brought some nice adventures. Besides supporting Elizabeth in her conference presentation on contemporary versions of Jane Austen stories, I had a nice run on the National Mall and an eye-opening trip to the Newseum, a museum on the history of journalism. Essentially, it’s a tour through American history told through the prism of media coverage. I’m a total media nerd (my favorite course in college was the intro to Mass Media course I took with Dr. Jin Kim my freshman year at SUNY Plattsburgh), so this is now my favorite museum. I spent six hours in there, and I still don’t think I did justice. Nicole even said, “You can’t do this museum in one day.” She’s right.
I met with Nicole for dinner preshow. Finding a good Thai place was an adventure. When I walked to the address, I learned they had changed locations. Nicole was more on the up-and-up about DC cuisine than I, so she got to the new location. However, since we hadn’t made reservation, the restaurant, Thai X-ing, wanted to charge us $40 per person. We said screw that and went to a place a few feet away called BKK, which had a more welcoming vibe. The Pad Thai was some of the best I’d ever had; you could really taste the peanut butter in the sauce. More good conversation ensured; cats, my book, her work, good TV shows, our histories, why there is such a stigma against singlehood (a common topic on our CoSP group). I also shared the story of how the Special Guest joke came to fruition. I'm not the only creator; it was a group effort on the part of myself, Maggie, Gary, and Drew. We parted ways at about 9, so I had an hour to kill before the doors to the club would open at 10, so I walked about a mile down U Street to get to this bookstore I found called G Books, which the description said was open till 11. My plan was to geek out on some random books in some corner somewhere, maybe even grab a coffee if that was an option. As I walked down U Street, I noticed a pattern: bar, nightclub, pizzeria, homeless dude asking for change, bar, nightclub, pizzeria, homeless dude asking for change, bar, nightclub, pizzeria, homeless due asking for change (rule of threes). The bookstore was difficult to locate when GMap said “Arrived.” I had to go down some stairs to get there, where I discovered a few things. No café or even a corner to hide it, but there was a musty smell and a bunch of cardboard boxes and piles of books strewn about all over the place. It was also closing at 10 p.m., just a few minutes. As I walked around, I saw not only books, but also handcuffs, dildos, and lubricants, and a few of the book covers had pictures of naked men on it and I saw the title, Own Your Gayness. Conclusion: Craig’s walked into a gay bookstore. G Bookstore, Gay Bookstore, makes sense. I have gay friends and family members, some of the coolest people I’ve ever known are gay, I’ve dated bisexuals, but I don’t fall under that classification, so there was really nothing there for me. I smiled at the clerk politely, said “thank you,” and left. I got to the club at about 10:15, where I was greeted by a line a mile long (or it felt a mile long). The line moved ever-so-slowly, which was causing some widespread panic among my fellow concertgoers (“I hope they haven’t started yet”). Some dude vomited into a garbage can. One of his friends said, “I don’t think he’s done it in a while.” His other friend said, “Neither have I, that’s no reason. That’s not good.” The Lotus scene reminded me of the vibe at the Disco Biscuits shows I went to in New York in my early 20s; a lot of those folks were rolling on ecstasy. Not my bag, but whatever floats one’s boat. I’m not a Biscuits fan either (as I discovered from attending the shows), but I’d be open-minded to Lotus. Anyway, we got in at around 10:30, and they hadn’t started. I bought a CD, as is my ritual at most of the smaller shows I go to. I had never been to a show, nor do I really know any of their music, so I asked the dreadlocked merch clerk his recommendation. He said Nomads is their most popular album, so I made the purchase. To say I was blown away by Lotus would be an understatement. Their tribal beats and LED lighting were epic (people prone to seizures should steer clear). I found myself dancing pretty hard. During setbreak, I had a few conversations with some random dudes that began with, “These guys are sick.” During the second set, I started to fall asleep (most of the shows I go to normally end at midnight), but I was able to rally together to dance it out toward the end. Some metalhead-looking dude showed up with a stuffed octopus on each hand, presumably because he was rolling or he wanted to give the other rollers something to gaze at. Another dude was making shapes with his fingers. The crowd is a show indeed! As I made my walk back to the hostel, the smell of pizza captivated me, so I stopped at a spot (I don’t normally do late night pizza postshow anymore, but I’m in DC, for phucks sake). It was a bit of a wait, and late-night partiers are another show. Some drunk girl was yelling, “You’re so rude” to the poor clerk behind the counter, to which she shook her hand. I’m wearing a Grateful Dead shirt with a music-induced permagrin, staying quiet, and there was a dude with a ponytail and a beard who looked like he belonged at the show, and we were just sitting there, chill, in all the noise. The clerk felt bad, and we were probably the most well-behaved people in that pizzeria, so she hooked us up with bottles of water. This reminds me of a conversation I had with the barista at the Barnes and Noble café in Hampton, where she commented my Phish shirt. She then talked about how she used to work at the Hampton Coliseum and how Phish fans were her favorite patrons because they were so nice and they tipped well (I had tipped this pizzeria clerk a dollar). I felt good about myself and my representation of the scene as I walked home at 2 a.m. RING! RING! RING! My alarm went off at 3:15 a.m., an hour, that in Nicole’s words “nobody should have to get up at.” But I needed time to wake up, shower, eat breakfast, and get to the train station to get to Washington, DC for this show, which I wouldn’t be able to go to if not for my presentation at the National Popular Culture Association conference, which, this year, was being held just up the road from me at the Marriott Wardman Park in DC. Maggie dropped off me off at 4:30, where I was met by my colleague, Elizabeth. Nice person, brilliant scholar on anything English literature-related, complete Anglophile. The usual academic conversation occurred before I went into my reading, writing, and napping.
At around a quarter to 10, the train arrived at Union Station, where I quickly changed into my conference clothes (button-down black shirt with stripes, black pants, black shoes, black leather shoes). I dropped my suitcase off at the hostel, and since I was feeling pretty zombie-like and couldn’t check in, I went to a place called Recharj, which has “nap pods.” For $9, you can rent a pod for a half hour where you can just take a power nap. It’s a new concept, but a neat one (I’d love to be able to use one of those at my workplace). After my nap, I went to the conference hotel, registered, caught up on some work e-mails, and had a Po’Boy sandwich at this restaurant called Hot Juicy Crawfish. I splurged the extra dollar on Cajun fries, which turned out to be way spicier than I like my fries. There’s spicy, and there’s, well, THAT. Anyway, Christina and I met at the hotel after lunch, and we caught up at Starbucks. A fellow scribe and singles activist, she was able to get me inspired to continue my work, and she rightly made fun of my torn-up notepad, which reaks of battle scars from the shows it’s boogied at with me. In addition, the following hilarious dialogue exchange took place: Christina: I may be going to Virginia Beach to see my sister in late June. Me: Damn, I’ll be out of town. Christina: You won’t be at another concert, will you? Me: How’d you know? (I then laughed for about a minute or so; if we hadn’t been in a Starbucks or other public place, it would have been ten). Me: Yeah, the three concerts I’m going to this week are it for another month. Then I’m going to New York, where I’m going to three concerts three nights in a row. And then off to Colorado a month later where I’m seeing another three in a row.) (Christina’s eyes literally bulged out of her sockets). The conference presentation, on singles’ rights in the academic workplace, was very well-received, and I think it turned some heads. During the Q&A portion, Christina, who was my Special Guest for this conference, taught the term “amatonormativity” to the group, many of whom scribbled it in their notepads. After I booked it from the conference to the hostel to check in, unpack, and change into my concert gear (Phish T-shirt and jeans), I met Nicole (3/16/19) at this taco place near the 9:30 Club called El Ray. Tables were a tough grab, but I was lucky enough to find two seats at the bar. The atmosphere (bars inside with a table-lined garden outside) reminded of the Rathskellar, this incredible German restaurant in Indianapolis I ate at when I presented at this same conference last year. The tacos at El Ray were amazing, the conversation even better. We talked music, cats, travel, work, life. I knew the concert was looming, but I was enjoying the conversation. Finally, we parted ways at about 9:15, but I figured the show wouldn’t start until at least 9:30. I was wrong. The bouncer told me the band had started fifteen minutes earlier and he stamped my hand with an 8:15 on it. Liars!, I thought. It’s the 9:30 Club; bands aren’t supposed to start until 9:30! Oh well. When I walked in, there was maybe one spot available by the door. Wall-to-wall people packed the place. Almost immediately after I got situated, somebody aggressively pushed me out of the way so he could move forward. He did the same to others. This is a city club, we’re not at the Norva anymore, I thought. Tangent: The 9:30 Club wins the Most Colorful Venue Award from me thus far. Its posters and overall “guttery” feel remind me of an old-school New York punk club like CBGBs (a regret of mine is never having gone there). They also have a visual history of acts that have played there, expressed in CD form. The shelves house CDs from artists and are organized by year (i.e., Walk the Moon played there in 2014, so a CD is catalogued under the year “2014”). This was my third time at this venue: first was in August 2016, where I went to see L7 solo (“Pretend We’re Dead”). My second time was two months later, when I took my ex, who I’ll call S, to see Yonder Mountain String Band, where we had our first of many spats (shudders). I guess that’s why she’s my ex. Annnnnnnyway, as the show moved on, I was able to locate space and slowly move my way to a closer spot (I didn’t feel like shoving my way to the front; I figured I’d just let it happen organically, and I got as close as I wanted). Being in that show was like being in an aural kaleidoscope. That’s how I’d describe anything Les Claypool’s involved with. I wore my Phish shirt in tribute; I own no Primus gear, and the last time I had seen him was when he performed with Oysterhead back in 2001 at NYC’s Roseland Ballroom. The band busted out with Pink Floyd’s “Astronomy Domine” and they played the Beatles’s “Tomorrow Never Knows.” I thought I heard a “Jerry was a Race Car Driver” tease after “Astronomy Domine,” but no dice. I was a little bummed they didn’t encore with that. It would have also been cool if Trey Anastasio had showed up and they busted out “Oz is Ever Floating,” my Oysterhead tune. I guess a man can dream. Another highlight was exiting the show. The hallway is tiny, so we were exiting practically in a single-file line. I’d never seen anything like that. Sucks if one has an Uber waiting. At any rate, my head hit the pillow pretty roughly, and I was out like a light once I hit my hostel bed. So five days between shows is a long time fo sho. Especially when you’re working for four of them. My freshman composition students have essays due this weekend, and this week was spent conferencing with all of them individually. It definitely alleviates the widespread panic that has the potential to occur when they’re writing their essays (I laughed for about ten minutes after writing this; that joke never gets old).
Anywho, after working late, I had to stop at the Food Lion to get one of those Rock Star energy drinks, because on Friday, I’d need to be on my game by conferencing with more students. That caused me to get there at about 8:20. During the ride to my apartment, located two minutes in walking distance from the Boathouse, I kept saying to myself, Can’t miss Special Guest! Can’t miss Special Guest! When I parked and walked to the venue, I heard, “Can you tell me how to get to North Mississippi All-Stars?” I started giving him directions, but as I walked over to the car, it was Gary busting my chops. We met inside at Special Guest/Roebuck finished up. I saw Roebuck open up for Roosterfoot back in February, and they’re pretty awesome. Gary’s assessment, “They’re not as good as Special Guest, but they’re alright.” I agree; I’ve been seeing Special Guest open for concerts since I was in the womb, pretty much. Okay, maybe not in the womb, but my first concert at least. Anywho, I ran into Dean and Dave. Dean greeted me with, “I’m surprised you’re not in Chicago or New York seeing a show.” I thought that was unjustified; I mean, it’s not like I travel THAT much for concerts. (Thinks to self). Oh, wait a minute, the title of this blog (notenoughconcerts.weebly.com for those reading Aaron’s page). The Dickinson Brothers, Cody and Luther, put on a spectacular show. I had seen them once before with Mark/Brodysseus in Charlottesville back in 2015; I remembered Andres Osborne, but not the All-Stars. At one point, someone (I don’t know the dude’s name) came on to play the washboard, which was pretty trance. There were also teases of Hendrix’s “Voodoo Child,” Otis Redding’s “Hard to Handle,” popularized by the Dead and the Black Crowes. And they encored with what I thought was the Allman Brothers’s “Mountain Jam.” Dean and Gary kept talking me into trying to hit the Allman Betts Band at the Norva next week. Tempting, but I don’t like to have to fight through the day-after concert blues at work more than once a month. But I suppose that could change. |
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April 2024
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