My meditations on this began out of a
repugnance for getting older. I had tickets to see Washed Out with
openers Blood Orange and Grimes, but the night of the show, a Monday,
everyone bowed out, citing the old “have to be up early for work”
excuse. It dawned on me that while I was still serving tacos in a
tiny Mexican restaurant, these people, my friends, had
careers, and that these careers were so important that they could not
waste hours of sleep to see a once-in-a-lifetime lineup play to a
packed house, everyone with dancing shoes on. I wrangled a friend
who, like myself, had few daytime responsibilities, or at the very
least could handle being a bit sleepy the next day. We had a
phenomenal time, but even so I was bummed. Was I somehow immature or
unaccomplished because I enjoyed this sort of thing? On Thursday, a
heart-to-heart with a friend who had bailed resulted in the following
conclusion: the two of us were at different places in our lives, and
apparently I was not the adult.
The thing is, it didn't really matter
to me. If being an adult meant forgoing unexpected Bastille Day
fireworks over the Hudson after a free tUnE-yArDs performance so that
I could efficiently alphabetize files in a cubicle for a steady
paycheck, then I was content to sling salsa for at least a few more
years. I wouldn't trade losing my shit over those first haunting
strains of Dirty Beaches' “Lord Knows Best” billowing through
Glassland's papery clouds to change a dirty diaper, because Alex Zhang Hungtai is the coolest dude
who ever lived, and that night he vowed to “croon the fuck out”
which is exactly what happened.
I wouldn't want to miss the chance to
jump on the Music Hall of Williamsburg stage for Star Slinger's
closing cut “Punch Drunk Love” or to witness Phil Elvurum on the
altar of the gorgeous St. Cecilia's church, his soft voice
reverberating angelically around the cathedral. Or to have folk hero
Michael Gira kiss my hand after the Swans show, which was the
loudest, sweatiest, and single most transcendent rock-n-roll
experience I'd ever had. Nor would I miss the incredible stage
set-up as it virtually came alive to Animal Collective's Prospect
Park set, even as the heat and hallucinogens caused teenagers all
around me to pass out. Had I not decided on a whim just a day before the show, I would never have seen Dam-Funk shred a
key-tar as we sailed around Manhattan on a ferry, the sun setting
against the Brooklyn Bridge and the Statue of Liberty waving her
torch over the deck. I braved the pollution of the Gowanus Canal to
see a Four Tet DJ in a garden that managed to be verdant despite all
the toxins pulsing through the ground.
This was my fourth year at CMJ, and it
stands as one of my favorite events because in that moment, you're
right with those fledgling acts, waiting to see a performance that
will build their buzz or totally break them. This year, at a Trash
Talk performance replete with band members flinging themselves from
balconies, a friend of mine well into her twenties found herself in a
circle pit for the very first time. Later that week, I watched Pat
Grossi of Active Child strum a person-sized harp, its strings
practically glowing as they vibrated against his fingertips.
Fiercely loving music is one thing that
doesn't get boring for me. As I age, it doesn't get old. Seeing a
Party of Helicopters reunion performance at Death By Audio in
February proved that. I used to see them religiously when I lived in
Ohio. In my veins was the same blood that was present when I was
twenty, and every muscle, every cell, remembered what to do – I
damn near gave myself whiplash, working myself into a frenzy.
And despite spending hours researching
obscure bands for music supervision projects I freelance, I still
discover bands just by attending shows. While dancing my ass off at
the 100% Silk Showcase at Shea Stadium, I discovered a whole label's
worth of material harkening back to club jams of the nineties, and
the Amanda Brown vs. Bethany Cosentino debate was forever settled
in my mind in favor of the LA Vampires frontwoman; Brown is a
visionary while Cosentino is just cute.
In roughly fifteen years of attending
rock concerts, I'd say I had the best one yet. I've decided that
since growing up is not worth the trade-off of giving up live music,
or changing the way I experience the music that I love, that I will
have to marry the two. While this trajectory began years ago, this
is the first time I've felt any sort of mission behind the fandom. I
am the person people call and ask “are there any good shows going
on tonight?”, the person with extra tickets who drags friends along
to see bands they haven't heard of, the person who brings a huge
group of old friends together for a show, the person who barring all
that will go to a show alone and still have a blast. I am one of the
thousands of people who log on to Ticketmaster at 9:55am for
Radiohead tickets and still won't get any. I'm the person at the
front of the crowd, snapping a few quick pictures for those who
couldn't make it, and then dancing like a thing possessed for the
rest of the set. For me, it's dedication. It's all part of being
someone who was there.
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