On Thursday, Dec. 1, Brad and I went downtown to see The Rosebuds and the Shout Out Louds at the Social. It was an awesome show with lots of energy, cool Swedish accents and the only guitar tech I’ve ever seen wear an argyle sweater – and he was sauce!
The Rosebuds opened the show. The lead singer looked a bit like a cleaned-up Stephen Malkmus with one of those cool golf caps. The drummer – who said he also plays with Portastatic – looked a bit like Larkin’s funny sidekick brother on “Invasion,” and the blonde woman on the keyboards was a real sweetie – I talked to her after the show. I asked her to sign my CD cover, and she opened it up and wrote a paragraph.
I’m a little biased about this band because in my younger years, I donned a vest and plastic bearclaws as a member of the Beaver tribe. I was a YMCA Indian Princess, and my dad’s “Indian name” was Great White Stork. I still remember sitting on the armrest in the front seat of my parents’ blue station wagon, trying to come up with my Indian Princess name. My dad said, “What about Rosebud?” I was hooked.
My time in the father-daughter group was extremely fun, and I never had to sell chocolate mint cookies. But, I’ll save it for another post.
All that to say, I was intrigued the first time I heard about this band. I heard some of their music on a listening station at Park Avenue CDs, and it was good, but I never bought the CD. I really enjoyed the show, though, and the CD’s great.
Next up – the
Shout Out Louds. Let me say first that I was surprised that the place wasn’t more crowded. The Social filled up as the night went on, but it didn’t seem close to selling out. I’ve been going there so often lately, I recognize some of the other patrons. One of the guys from GayNotGay.com works there – I knew he looked familiar!
So, while there may not have been packing them in, the Shout Out Louds certainly attract a boisterous, eclectic audience. There seemed to be all ages and socio-economic groups represented. Three Italian (or Greek?) guys in expensive suits were standing near us for a while, and there was a group of twentysomethings who looked fresh off the booze cruise in Santa Monica. They were hot Cali guys with surfer tans and that slightly curly tousled hair. But, they also were the guys at the show who you just wish would pass out. They sang along to every lyric and bounced to every beat, bumping in to people and keeping everyone around them on guard so they don’t get elbowed in the breasts. That always seems to happen to me at shows. It’s worse when smoking is allowed. Them cigarettes are hot!
The band rocked. The Shout Out Louds are from Sweden, which is apparently the home of lumberjacks and 80s-rolled pants. Remember how you used to roll your jeans in middle school? You would pull the excess “pant” over to the side and roll the hem up so that your ankles barely getting enough blood to keep going. That’s how the guys wore their pants, and the lead singer had suspenders, too. He resembled Jason Schwartzman with a dark dense beard.
That’s about the time I noticed the bitch. There was this one woman at the show, who I will always remember, and who I contemplated not even mentioning here – because I didn’t want to be rude. Then, after the show, I went to the bathroom, and she was blocking the entranceway, talking to another girl. She didn’t even acknowledge my existence or apologize for not moving out of the way, and when she walked out, she let the door slam in my face. I thought, it’s on. Forget decency; this girl is going down!
This supermodel, and I’ll call her Heather for obvious reasons, was the type of girl who would have fit in more at Tabu than at The Social. She was wearing tight jeans and a sheer black shirt that revealed this unattainable body – big boobs and a slender waist. She was hot, and she knew it. When she raised her glass to the band to sing along –
see betamike’s disdain for such an act – it was not a beer bottle, it was a glass of whiskey sour or maybe rum and coke with a dash of vanilla.
I couldn’t tell if she was already drunk when the band started playing, or if she was just an asshole. Heather, who was very tall, and her friend pushed their way to the front, and Heather called an All-American blond boy over to join her, which he did for about 5 minutes. She had a giant rock on her left hand, so I guess he’s the future father of her spoiled kids. That’s when the bouncing started. I don’t know how she did it. I was mesmerized. I couldn’t see her feet, but I would bet a kidney that she was in stilettos. I was convinced she was going to fall on her ass, or she would flash a nipple, because her boobs were flying around, and even the band seemed to notice.
The part that really struck me though, and the reason why I’m devoting so much space to a Heather (and that’s in reference to the film, not to any of the people I know named Heather) is that I felt like I was back in high school, but in a parallel universe. This Homecoming Queen was on my turf. She would jump around, lose her balance and bump into these young indie girls who she just ignored. It was driving me insane. She’d pull herself back in place and whip her Crystal Gayle hair around like she was in a Whitesnake video.
I know I’m an idiot because I let her bother me. But I just kept thinking how bizarre the situation was. I kept thinking that she has her whole life to act superior to others – why is she doing it here? This is
our place. This is the place where
we enjoy something
they don’t understand,
they can’t understand. I know how ridiculous it sounds. At the same time, it reminds me of fans being upset that their favorite indie band signs to a major label and is played on the local radio station between Creed and that omnipresent “Two Princes” song. Almost like she’s cheapening the experience for us.
I read an interview with Trent Reznor one time, talking about the success of his song “Closer,” which I’m sure was a required sing-along at every frat party. Trent said that he would be on stage performing, and these frat guys would be singing along to every word, and he thought, hey, wait, this is not for you. You are the ones I was rebelling against, the ones that hated me, that bullied me.
At the same time, it’s all the beauty of music. There’s something for everyone, and no one should be excluded. It brings people together; it is true. Just don’t bring those certain ones too close to me, especially if they’re bouncing around with no regard for anyone else.
It was enough to cause my friends and family members to scatter across the United States, and my parents may move away for good. Friends and family members of mine are living in FEMA trailers while their homes are gutted. They've lost all their appliances, furniture, clothes and sense of security. Then, hurricanes Rita and Wilma left trails of destruction, too. The war in Iraq continues with no end in sight, I paid more than $3 a gallon for gas, terrorists bombed buses and subways in London, Sandra Day O'Connor announced her retirement from the Supreme Court, and George Dubya started a second term in the White House.
To be fair, 2005 was pretty good to me. My parents survived Hurricane Katrina with barely a roof shingle missing, I attended my first Coachella Festival, got a brand new MINI Cooper named Tallulah, started taking Sign Language classes with a kick-ass teacher, saw snow for the very first time on my first trip to Canada, met Conor Oberst, started my own blog, etc. etc. Brad got a new job and bought his first home, Christy and Tom got a new home and a dog named "Polly," and I spent lots of quality time with my friends and family.
