The Politics Of Secret Shows, Politics at Large
When a Secret Show comes along, finally you learn that hipsters really can come out on time, and all those times you sat through opening acts making excuses for the scant crowd, those excuses were more or less unjustified. When there is a Secret Show, people are on the money, on the dot, and even early, depending. Which is why at 8:30 on Thursday night I was rushed through the industrial area streets to Acme, a venue that is generally considered on the small side, and thus not often hosting acts one would rush to. It was more than a Secret Show to me. It was just plain a Secret. Arranged a few weeks in advance, all I knew was to be on my ready for eventing on the evening of the 20th. And so I was. And so we rushed up almost out of breath to the front door, and the doorman looked at us skeptically. At 8:30! Even when Laura waved and he recognized her.
"These five," he said, as he gestured to us and three others just arrived, "These five and that's all, that's it."
So the bar is dead packed, and we push our way back and forth a coupla times to say hi to people, and we stand as close as we can, because tonight the Decemberists are playing a Secret Show. Most of those arrived are people connected to people who know people. Like me. Colin himself comes up to Laura, and they do the hug and chat and she hands over her new cd (fresh off of those presses, gorgeous as all, comes out in November) and he tucks it away, and, admittedly, I am thrilled at this.
I am even more thrilled when the Decemberists altogether pack themselves onto Acme's small stage, already tipsy, and start off by playing a strand of brand new songs, after which announcing that they had never played them live before. I pull out a bus transfer and on it scrawl "curlews carve their arabesque" because when he opens his mouth and belts it out I am convinced it is one of those perfect segments of phrase I'll die if I forget. I see a friend whose girlfriend works at the venue, and she called him in today telling him he had to be there, and now she's ferrying drinks to him until he wraps his arms around his friends for "I am a writer, a writer of fictions" and they are sloshed, and they sway back and forth to the song.
Is there anything left to say? The first songs, the first forty minutes, those were the gold times, with Laura and I switching standing turns on a chair to see everyone in the band play. Me recognizing one of the baristas from work as being the newest travelling member of the band. Seeing her face finally light up as she plays music, whereas I never saw anything quite approaching that smile when I ordered a mocha from her the other week. People viewed in proper context, I suppose. They did a hella long Jefferson Airplane cover that I seem to remember suffering through before, but hey, they were sloshed as all and having a good time with them and theirs crowding up the space, so why not, especially if some Velvet Underground gets worked in?
The one time that got me a bit, that sobered me up, though. They played Sixteen Military Wives, and I had flashbacks to the first few times hearing it, and seeing them play it, and that fresh heady rebellion and anger and the forced ironic insouciance of the chorus, and I felt like that was a while ago. But this war is still going on. This same damn war. And I stood on the chair, watching the band, watching the rise and fall of the drunk and mostly happy crowd that knew a good majority of the words, and I got tired. I got really tired of caring, and of the big system, and of not being able to just go and fix things with my own two hands, to shake a few shoulders until somebody gets it. But I don't get it. I'm reading Joe Sacco's Palestine and getting all overwhelmed again and the depth and breath of this whole situation, of that whole region, of history cascading like a waterfall on every born child, and I love this band to pieces, but I don't want to have to still sing this song and mean it, and at work I see Cindy Sheehan on the cover of her book, posed like a candidate for sainthood, and it's too much to deal with, that pastel fog, and I wish I maybe hada drink or two in me, and I wish they hadn't played that song.
Cheer them on to their rivals
Cause America can
And America can't say no
And America does
If America says it's so
It's so
"These five," he said, as he gestured to us and three others just arrived, "These five and that's all, that's it."
So the bar is dead packed, and we push our way back and forth a coupla times to say hi to people, and we stand as close as we can, because tonight the Decemberists are playing a Secret Show. Most of those arrived are people connected to people who know people. Like me. Colin himself comes up to Laura, and they do the hug and chat and she hands over her new cd (fresh off of those presses, gorgeous as all, comes out in November) and he tucks it away, and, admittedly, I am thrilled at this.
I am even more thrilled when the Decemberists altogether pack themselves onto Acme's small stage, already tipsy, and start off by playing a strand of brand new songs, after which announcing that they had never played them live before. I pull out a bus transfer and on it scrawl "curlews carve their arabesque" because when he opens his mouth and belts it out I am convinced it is one of those perfect segments of phrase I'll die if I forget. I see a friend whose girlfriend works at the venue, and she called him in today telling him he had to be there, and now she's ferrying drinks to him until he wraps his arms around his friends for "I am a writer, a writer of fictions" and they are sloshed, and they sway back and forth to the song.
Is there anything left to say? The first songs, the first forty minutes, those were the gold times, with Laura and I switching standing turns on a chair to see everyone in the band play. Me recognizing one of the baristas from work as being the newest travelling member of the band. Seeing her face finally light up as she plays music, whereas I never saw anything quite approaching that smile when I ordered a mocha from her the other week. People viewed in proper context, I suppose. They did a hella long Jefferson Airplane cover that I seem to remember suffering through before, but hey, they were sloshed as all and having a good time with them and theirs crowding up the space, so why not, especially if some Velvet Underground gets worked in?
The one time that got me a bit, that sobered me up, though. They played Sixteen Military Wives, and I had flashbacks to the first few times hearing it, and seeing them play it, and that fresh heady rebellion and anger and the forced ironic insouciance of the chorus, and I felt like that was a while ago. But this war is still going on. This same damn war. And I stood on the chair, watching the band, watching the rise and fall of the drunk and mostly happy crowd that knew a good majority of the words, and I got tired. I got really tired of caring, and of the big system, and of not being able to just go and fix things with my own two hands, to shake a few shoulders until somebody gets it. But I don't get it. I'm reading Joe Sacco's Palestine and getting all overwhelmed again and the depth and breath of this whole situation, of that whole region, of history cascading like a waterfall on every born child, and I love this band to pieces, but I don't want to have to still sing this song and mean it, and at work I see Cindy Sheehan on the cover of her book, posed like a candidate for sainthood, and it's too much to deal with, that pastel fog, and I wish I maybe hada drink or two in me, and I wish they hadn't played that song.
Cheer them on to their rivals
Cause America can
And America can't say no
And America does
If America says it's so
It's so