A Concert Review (Of Sorts)
Last night I finally received the long awaited confirmation from the hipster gods that I am, indeed, not cool anymore.
We had tickets to the Ted Leo & the Pharmacists show at WorkPlay always a fun time. Over the past two years, I've had the pleasure of seeing such artists as Alejandro Escovedo, Hem, Son Volt and, okay, Angie Aparo (my wife makes me go to his shows... again and again and again and again) there at WorkPlay's soundstage. It is a cozy, two-tiered concert hall with tables or standing-room on the floor, booths around the perimeter, and intimate tables lining the balcony. You can run a tab and order bottles of wine, mixed drinks and beers, served to you by very attentive waitresses. A wonderful venue. As it turns out, though, the soundstage is not the only space WorkPlay rents out for music concerts.
Last night, for instance, WorkPlay was apparently hosting two bands one at the soundstage and one (Ted Leo) in the back, seemingly recreated in the style of a tiny high school cafeteria complete with cinderblock walls and fluorescent lighting. Running a tab at the bar? Not hardly. It is a folding table, cash only, tonic water from a 2-liter bottle kind of affair. Tables to spectate from? Nope. Standing room only. A black, unadorned room with a stage at the front. Last night, by the way, upon our arrival, we found this lovely space to be slowly filling with twenty-something emo/punk-wannabes in black shirts and matted hair kids that probably couldn't even name a Sex Pistol. And then, there was the opening act.
There is no word other than "suck" that would do this band justice. Crunching power-chords and guttural screams. What was the opening song about, you ask? It appeared to be about sausage. On a stick. That was the chorus: *imagine screaming punk-guy* "SAUSAGE ON A STICK!!! AAAIIGH!!!!!!" It was beyond terrible. The audience, to their credit, weren't reacting at all to the music they were just standing with their arms crossed, as was I. But the fact that people weren't streaming for the exits, or at least deciding to take a cigarette break outside, was disturbing in a way I am still trying to come to grips with.
I stood there, mulling over the happenings of the past five minutes. The concert isn't in the nice theatre space, it's in this psych-ward-esque shithole. I can't sit at a table, sip at a gin and tonic, and enjoy the intellectual punk-pop of Mr. Leo. I have to go to the ATM, pay four bucks for a watered-down flat concoction in an 8 ounce plastic cup, and strain to see over punk-posturing, moodily gyrating emo dudes and goth chicks. I looked at my wife, slumped my shoulders, and walked out of the "concert hall" and into the disgustingly pale and buzzing lights of the "lobby". I had decided against it. Having weighed seeing a truly good band in an uncomfortable and irritating atmosphere and going home, napping on the couch, and going to bed at a decent hour, I took the path less traveled by. And that, my friends, makes all the difference.
Good music just isn't worth the annoyance anymore. There are nights when I enjoy the idea of going out to The Bottletree, say, and standing in a crowd listening to good independent artists. It isn't about the people. It's almost about the expectations. On a weeknight, when I have to go to work the next day, I like the idea of sitting back and enjoying a few drinks and some quality artistry. That is what I wanted. That crappy little room with the afterthought bar was just too much for me.
I'm sure Ted Leo was very good. But I've got all kinds of Ted Leo songs on .mp3. I don't need to subject my slightly more refined sensibilities to sub-optimal listening spaces. That is not my idea of a good time anymore.
So, gentle readers, please go check out some Ted Leo & the Pharmacists' material. It is as if Elvis Costello conceived a child with the Ramones (you don't have to conjure that mental image if you don't want to). And go check out WorkPlay if you haven't been. Just make sure the concert is on the main stage. That back room gets a hearty thumbs-down from me.
Originally published at Warum Ich Bin v3.0.