My day two in Brooklyn would beat ordinary music fans within an inch of death – but it seems to me that Brooklynites carry the badges of seasoned veterans.
What constitutes a concert veteran? Consider how I have been to over 50 shows of my own volition, have played around 75+ shows while in various music projects, and have worked at over 150 shows at the sound board — and I only count as what is known as a “pro”, not a veteran.
Moreover, day two was blanketed in a humid heat that reminded me of the Philippines. Did I live through it? Did my ears survive? Was I still able to stand at the end of it? Of course. I’m a pro, remember?
On this day, the crew was made up of Lucas and Ashley from the previous essay, but it is today I met Anna, who immediately sticks out in my mind because when I brought up turntables and music software, she was able to talk shop. As expected, geeking out with someone who has the compulsory vocabulary to engage in a more-than-cursory conversation is always refreshing. Talking about something in which you have a genuine interest, having a lot to share, allows you to let your guard down — for music connoisseurs it’s those underground obscure bands from far away with weird choices for instruments; for car nuts it’s the thing you were going to do to the exhaust and manifold that will give you that much more oomph; for foodies it’s the vegan red velvet cupcake at this unassuming little hole-in-the-wall nearby; and for fashionistas it’s the limited edition kicks made by some artist you had to order from somewhere in middle America because you couldn’t even find them on eBay or Amazon. For DJs and electronica fans, it’s music software.
Thinking back on it, though, I’m not sure she was as excited as I was to talk about those things. Maybe that level of audio-geekery isn’t something rare to her. After all, this is New York.
Overall, I must say it was great to hang out with a bunch of kids who were up for anything – there were no complaints and no fear of lacking sleep. We were more anxious about getting to the events early enough to catch all the music instead of being preoccupied with the possibility that our feet hurt.
One forgets that their feet hurt when they’re too busy dancing.
Festival Culture
Goodnight, Brooklyn
The first concert of the day was an outdoor concert – and a historic one at that, being the final concert at McCarren Park Pool. Sonic Youth appropriately bid farewell to this Brooklyn venue, but not without being supported by the Vivian Girls, Times New Viking, and Wolf Eyes. We knew that bands were going to open for Sonic Youth, but we didn’t expect the bill to elicit an increasingly emphatic “Oh, coool!” each time we discovered who was playing.
That’s probably because we knew bands were playing — just not which ones.
A festival concert was a good thing to kick off diving headlong into a week of music. Festival shows are different from regular concerts because of certain unique elements – they are always outdoors, there is almost always braving the heat, there is always always always sparse breathing room while standing shoulder-to-shoulder to get a good view of the stage, unavoidably being sweaty next to other sweaty people. Some people can’t take it and yet others swear by it. I viewed it as a welcome change from what I’m used to: the dark, cramped little corner behind a soundboard.
And sure, it may have been hot, but there’s ample hydration at these kinds of events – you just have to be prepared to let your wallet leak a little. We did spring for a Mr. Softee, even though the purchase did keep up Lucas’s streak of disappointment in the treat vendor. I’m still not quite sure why this detail sticks out in my mind. But from now on, I’m going to encourage Lucas to get Mr. Softee anytime he has chump change to spare just to see how many times he can be disappointed before he just boycotts the ice cream truck altogether.
It is during this concert that Ashley’s true colors come out, because it is not until Sonic Youth took the stage where in the less-than-24-hours I’ve known her, this is the first time I see her this excited. Elated, even. Stoked. Swooning.
Swooning? Yes. She has an enormous crush on Thurston Moore. And not only does that make her a legitimate musician in my book since I’ll go so far as to say, “hell, I’ve got a crush on Thurston Moore,” but it is also indicative of an understood music history appreciation.
It reminded me of one of the tenets for liking indie rock. In the same way that Lucas and I had considered Chuck Taylors to be “the indie rock uniform” in the 90’s and very early 2000’s, another rite of passage is finding out what you like about Sonic Youth. Nobody I know who claims to have a discerning taste in rock bands actually dislikes Sonic Youth. If you do dislike them, you: 1) are full of shit, 2) never really cared to know much about them, which is fine, or 3) don’t “get it.” Aside from the vague sexual euphemism, I can’t claim to know what is the exact definition of “getting it” – but what I do know is it requires some kind of gut understanding of what’s going on in the music and why it is going on.
In that way, enjoying Sonic Youth is almost like a gateway drug into finding underground music for yourself. And that is appropriate, since the next show we would all attend right after Sonic Youth required a little bit of hearsay and internet resourcefulness to know it was happening.
Underground Culture
Parts & Labor at Market Hotel
I think that the most interesting thing about dirty, gritty, artwork-busy, off-the-beaten-path, underground shows as they are portrayed by media is that movies try to recreate it, and it looks like it should be part of a movie; reality creates it, and all of a sudden it’s surreal. Both versions are actually not very different from each other. I guess that all depends on perspective being limited to a 16:9 screen or to the width of peripheral vision.
Since this essay was written months after the event, mainstream media have already picked up on these venues and have turned them into picturesque fantasies of “what kids are doing these days.” And from here, it’s all a matter of time before this surreality becomes orthodox.
Repeating the sweatiness of the day was the stuffiness of Market Hotel at night. But for my money, I will sweat profusely if it means I get to have as much fun as I did in that venue. A roundrobbin (or, a number of bands alternating playing each song) is something that I really did not expect in Brooklyn since it requires a good load of floor space to pull off, but oh, how it was executed. It’s thanks to this show that I have become a fan of Parts & Labor and Big A little a. For a music fan ordinarily these kinds of band names float around in a recommendation stew when you are immersed in that kind of a conversation. Half the time they only register as familiar words. Half of that time, you’ll have heard it at some point. Half of that time, you’ll remember what that sound is. And half of that time, you’ll have downloaded it at some point in your time scattered music fandom.
But going to a show where you discover a band you like? It’s good incentive to go out of your way to get the music. Because that music then means a little bit more to you. It’s that little bit that really makes a difference.
See, we don’t stumble over bands in LA. We have to make careful deliberation about who we drive 45 minutes out to go see, and disappointments last an entire night because going to another show will take you another 45 minutes. In Brooklyn, you crack a stupid joke and within a 30 foot radius the nearest drummer will give you a rimshot.
It’s also a good thing that Brooklyn is a dancing town with manners. People dance for the sake of dancing. You can dance with the person next to you at a show and you are not obligated to talk or be impressive. The point is to have fun — which I believe was the original point of dancing, correct?
Of note in this show involving dancing, Lucas leaned in towards someone to ask them a question. Not paying attention that he was leaning in to say something, the girl accidentally punched him in the face. She was immediately apologetic, but having witnessed this happen right in front of us, Ashley and I could not help but laugh. It’s not that we laugh at Lucas’s misfortune, it just looked… well, really funny.
At the end of the show, with everyone’s sweat slowly drying on their respective clothes and making their way towards whatever the next thing to do was, I experienced for the first time what I will call a Brooklyn Blur.
The Brooklyn Blur
Maybe you’re drunk, maybe your sweat is caked onto your clothing from dancing all night, maybe your body is feeling the effects of being out all day and into the night and your mind simply denies it, but when you keep on going after what for most people is a full day, events start to blend together and the only activity markers are:
1 – Jokes: We met Austin on our way out of Market Hotel and the group began to disband, Anna leaving for what seemed to be a very long drive and other people who met us at the show moving on to their local haunts so that they could get some last minute nightcaps before calling it a night. Austin came with us on the L, even after traversing what I remember as being further uptown Manhattan.
We got $1 pizza at the home of the “Ron Jeremy” in Bedford. It’s essentially a large drink. There’s small, medium, large, and Ron Jeremy. According to the thickly NYC accented pizza guy, “It’s so big, it will fill you up soooo goood.” Ordinarily, this is a cheap shot at a sex joke. But during the Brooklyn Blur, this is fucking hilarious. Adding to the novelty is the fact that a (relatively) professional establishment lists it as a size on their menu. I’m sure at some point it gets old for the people that work there, but hey, drinking helps to rebirth novelty.
Another joke at either the pizza place or one of the bars around there was related to the Smurfs. Something about how Smurfette, being the only female in an entire village of males, must give the rest of the village…
…wait for it…
…blue balls.
See? Ordinarily not that funny of a pun. I’d say “you had to be there” but that isn’t quite it. You can get it if you’re punchy enough.
So why did not-so-funny jokes stick out from the night? Because funny-at-the-time turns into recurring jokes, or “remember that time” stories, Family Guy-esque flashbacks, more distinguishable than actually funny jokes because instead of anticipated hilarity that often fills the associative properties of actually funny jokes, funny-at-the-time jokes allow for room to assign time, place, participants, and probably even details specific as pizza toppings. (Mine: Pepperoni. Simple.)
2 – Anomalies: There’s the funny, and then there’s the strange.
At our nightcap, I told Ashley, Austin, and Lucas about the legend of the brown note. You can look that up on your own time. Why did this come up in conversation? I have no idea. Brooklyn Blur, remember?
When we said goodbye to Austin, we got on the L and discovered two dudes playing the Didgeridoo and a conch shell.
Huh. Ok. Uh. Right.
I probably shouldn’t identify what about those two events mark the night because I’d be beating The Dead Horse with an Obvious Stick.
I guess when you know the people around you are blurry in the Brooklyn sense, it is essential to stand out with not-everyday objects and ideas. At least that way you’re somewhat memorable.
I mean, at least until the next time the blurry contingency hit the streets again.
