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| Sunday, April 23, 2006 |
| Punk Rock |
As we approach the building, excitement mounts. There are a ton of people here. Stepping into the back of an incredible line that snakes from the door, down the block, and around again, I feel momentary anxiety creep in.
Its brief.
Across the street sits the X96 'Incident Management' vehicle, and the Scion they are giving away. Radio promotions... I shake my head.
There are liberty spikes as far as the eye can see, conductor's caps, worn straw cowboy hats with skull and crossbones sitting on the front as a warning that the wearer below is poison... old worn tee-shirts from bands dating back to the seventies, others with product logos practically shouting 'twinkie, cheerio's, crush'. One young lady was sporting a six inch mowhawk, gauged ears, pierced nose, cheeks, eyebrows, tatsleeves, and a shirt with strawberry shortcake on it. Intresting conglomeration. I like the contradiction.
Oi! It's freezing!
People are bouncing on toes, breathing into hands, there's a group ahead playing hacky-sak and smoking cigarettes. Almost everyone is pierced, wearing black, jackets with patches held on by safety pins. These are the misbegotten youth, the misunderstood, the rebels with a cause.. These are the children that stand in protest against commercialism, bureaucracy, they fight for originality... and they all look so very much alike.
They seperate us, boys from girls-the men are patted down-remove their hats-the ladies empty pockets and grin sheepishly. Bouncers shine flashlights on tickets and ID's, shouting for the next person. Everyone wants to befriend the mammoth bouncer, his head shaved, ears gauged, a cold hard stare permanently etched on his face.
Inside it's warm, too warm. Bodies are practically piled one atop the other- already a phenomenal line to the restroom.
We present ID's, again, and are stamped on the hands with special seemingly invisible ink...
Next we're stopped at the entrance to an area fenced in from ceiling to floor, for the 'adult' crowd. The man shines a handheld blacklight at the skin of the back of my hand, then half usher, half pushes me through... I feel like a herded sheep.
After all this, I really just want a beer. There are just as many people pushing, shoving, piling up in front of the bar.. as there are people doing the same at the foot of the stage.
The first band comes on, the members acting crazy, kicking over microphone stands, strutting about angrily, breaking stuff, spitting water at the crowd, which consequently stand in mock boredom, not really listening, not really caring.
The band is thankful for the opportunity to play with such a reputable band.
Next on comes a band with a certain kind of prowess. They play vintage instruments, dress like the stepped right out of an advertisement or movie from the fifties. They have shaggy-emo haircuts, their flesh white in pallor. They make me think of 'Grease', the musical. The crowd is more reactive, the music better delivered.
There's an intermission of sorts. The soundmen break down instruments and reset the stage. There's a light check, sound check, microphone check... the security person in charge of banging drums, strumming guitars is doing it with proficiancy, as though he is the only person in the world professional enough, experienced enough, to perform such a duty. He is NOT expendable.
He smiles at the insults and shouts coming from the crowd, he very coolly flips us the bird. I am undually impressed.
A chant rises up. Everyone stomps their feet. A girl on the balcony spills her drink on the crowd below, too innebriated to care, she plants an open hand on the chest of the man closest to her, pushing him toward the bar.
The place is rumbling with anticipation. I half expect the walls to start caving in.
In darkness the musical masters step into position. Guitarists shoulder their instruments, the drummer is poised and ready. With swaggering confidence our rock superstar takes up his mike,"How's Salt Lake City tonight,"he gives momentary pause,"The kittens are out tonight, eh, Fellas?" tipping the bent brim of his cap, he winks, "Hey, kitten." The motion went to a skantily clad woman with blue hair perched on the shoulders of a great mass of muscle. She rewards the rockstar by lifting her shirt and showing her ample chest. For the second time tonight, I find myself shaking my head.
The music starts, a viscious circle of rabid men is monitored carefully by security. They kick and stomp one another, smashing bodies against each other, throwing fists and knocking elbows. Gutteral cries issue forth, they are even more frantic.
The people take up the chorus. They sing verse to verse, some trying to look uninterested. Others raise fists and shout. Many raise forefinger and pinky, bending their elbows they 'throw the horns'. I even see some tears in the crowd, kids that can't believe their hero is standing just before them.
A lady has mounted the table in front of us, girating she tries to catch his attention. She's in the darkest part of the club, against the chain link fence. A beer hurdles out of no where, hitting her shoulder. She turns toward its path to no avail, there's a sea of apathetic faces staring back. Humbled, she crawls from her perch.
The music is fast, hard, pulsing, alive. It's an intimate performance, the venue small. There are no big obnoxious lights, no stage theatrics. Just men beating drums, fingers picking at strings, one bent to the crowd- veins protruding at the neck, muscles tense, sweat dripping, face reddening. He crouches low, making himself small, then pouncing he bounds around showing us how much larger than life he can really be.
Its over too soon.
Everyone screams for an encore.
We chant his name, we chant the band name, people shout out names of songs yet to be played.
The star apologizes, its the pumpkin hour, city law prohibits a certain decibal at a certain hour. We are exceeding that.
He begins his descent, changes his mind, taking up his personal accoustic guitar that just happened to be set and ready for use at the foot of the stage. He entertains us for another five minutes.
We cheer profusely.
Nothing like a rebel.
We get it.
Point taken.
Can't wait for the next show.
Job well done.
We writhe involuntarily as the crowd shifts toward the door impatiently. For the second time tonight, I feel like a herded sheep. Outdoors I take a deep breath and enjoy my moment of nostalgia.
Can't wait for the next show. |
posted by katmandusuekookachoo @ 11:02 AM  |
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