I know I’ve been to this place before. But 100s of shows, 1,000s of beers and bands and ever increasing hearing and memory loss later, I have no idea when.
The 9:30 Club in DC is one of those iconic venues. The bands that have played here are simply stunning. But this is the new one. Not the old one. Not the original, as they say. But still damn cool. I’d been to the original, as well. But at some point, I was here. Was it the 9:30 at that time? I have no clue.
I know sometime in my youthful part of life, not necessarily my youth, I ventured into this place.
A story by Josh ignites my memory of it. Being in this exact place on the floor. Really he just mentioned of the old fan above our heads jars it from the webs of cob. Damn, how could I forget this place? It was a while ago, over a decade for sure. But here in this spot, with that fan, dripping down water, I was. For sure.
The heat. The alcohol. The smoke. And P.J. Harvey on stage. She was in complete command over all of us. And by us, I mean mostly guys. Mostly fools. Music snobs and the like. She was in control. We had to obey her and all she did was strum a few chords and open those dark eyes. Eyes made even more alluring because of the black makeup dominating them -- almost. Yet P.J. had the kind of eyes that dominated that black.
I vaguely remember the show. But I still remember that presence. That feeling of awe. Of whatever it was. I’m sure I was way too drunk, which was most of my 20s and 30s, really.
But here I am tonight, staring at a singer from Memphis playing the standup bass. I’d seen her each of the previous two nights as well. In Virginia. Charlottesville and Richmond, to be exact. She commands the stage a different way. Not with power, but with coy. Her shimmying on stage elicits just enough -- from both the boys and the girls.
And that bass.
Where do you meet ladies like this? Memphis, I guess.
Two nights later, I’m back in DC. Back at the 9:30 Club. Who does this two times in a row at my age? Me. And Josh. And tonight, his wife.
There before another anonymous -- to me, but not to the capacity crowd -- band gets ready to take the stage. I do my normal perusal of the crowd, when a flash of green catches my eye in the balcony. There, in profile only, I see her. Curly hair, bent in just perfectly at her ear where she has obviously pushed it many times before, and as I find out during the show, many more times to come. Some sort of charm bracelet is on her right wrist. No ring on the left hand.
Soon, I find myself looking up instead of forward to the stage. The opening band sucks anyway. Screaming and loud is about all I get from it. That’s when eyes meet eyes. That terrifying moment when you either keep looking, or turn away fast. Heart racing, I don’t move. Neither does she.
Finally, I manage a weak, broken-toothed smile/smirk that has become me.
She turns.
I take a swig of my Yuengling. Then another.
With the bottle done, we stroll downstairs to the bar.
“Got to get out of here,” Josh and his wife say with hands and frowns.
I glance up, just to see the gal in green. This time, she smiles.
We go downstairs, Josh, me and his wifey. It’s mostly empty.
The bartender - a short African-American with a very Southern drawl -- saunters over to take our order.
“Three beers. Good beers,” Josh says.
She brings us three Budweisers.
Josh smiles.
His wife shrugs.
I drink.
My eyes scan this room. Lots of seats, not a lot of butts.
A black guy sits at the bar, looking up at the TV. On it is the menu of a Reservoir Dogs DVD. Over and over a cartooned over Harvey Keitel or Michael Madsen or Tim Roth does something.
Conversation here is sparse.
A bright light is directly above my head, making me feel spotlighted. Yet no one is anticipating my next word. At least not here.
Soon, the bar gets crowded as more folk with ears ringing dive into this foxhole to get away from the bad music above us.
“Why would they pick them to open?” a very tall and stick-like skinny yuppy says.
“Oh, they weren’t that bad,” her guy says.
The music down here becomes Method Man for a moment. Then is quickly shut off.
“Odd,” is about all I can muster.
Two beers later -- for me back to Yuengling -- the openers stop their racket.
“Shall we go up, captain?” I ask.
Grimances greet me, but we go.
Upon ascending the stairs I look to the right, for the bathroom. I go. I pee.
Some guy strikes up a conversation about football.
I’m wondering why me, when I remember I’ve got a UVA football shirt on.
“Yeah, three in a row. But still, Groh must go!” I say in response to the most recent Cavalier win over Maryland.
“Really? I think he’s OK,” my bathroom buddy says, shaking his dick.
“Yep, fuck him,” I say and exit.
Out in the club, the crowd is excited. I don’t feel it. A couple days ago for Lucero, yes, I felt it. Now, for Built to Spill? Nothing.
Almost instinctively, I start looking up again as Josh and his wife chat.
There she is again. Same place. Sipping one some mixed drink -- it’s brown liquor -- through a straw.
She smiles again, then looks at the stage as the band comes on. Bad timing band.
Some song about birds is on the stage, but I’m looking up. Kind of mesmerized. She’s dancing, just a little. Singing too. She’s a fan. Her jeans are loose. Her shoes are of the tennis variety.
Then one last look down as the crowd cheers at the end of the song. How many have they played, I wonder, not really caring.
Then, she blows me a kiss.
“Not bad,” I think. And ponder going up the stairs.
This continues for a couple more songs. I notice the guy next to me. He’s wearing a ski cap and a leather jacket. A brown one. Not a black one. And he smells of a urine-soaked ashtray in the winter that a dog has chewed up for a bit, then spit back out.
I text a friend about this.
She replies “LOL.”
Boy that was a waste of time, I think, looking at the screen of my flip phone.
Soon, smell boy leaves and I’m relieved. So relieved I go to the bathroom again. This time, no conversations, just urination. Which of course, now has be singing that Elvis (Presley, not Costello) song “Little Less Conversation” with some substituted lyrics. I smile at my reflection in the condom vending machine. Some guy looks at me.
“Witty, I am not,” I think as I pee on a PBR can.
Taking my spot back on the floor, I look back upward and see something worse than noticing mold on your bread after you take that first bite of a sandwich -- leather guy and sweater girl are grinding away to the music on each other.
I watch in horror as the last few songs are played. Time goes extremely slow now. Not like before.
The band leaves the stage. Josh lets out a Woo. The crowd begins to disperse. I look up one last time.
She’s gone.
Outside it’s raining. It’s cold. And there are no cabs.
Across the way, Josh scampers to a different corner, where only a few are standing. Somehow he jumps in front in his turtle kind of way to snag a Red Top.
The three of us slide in the cab, much to the protest of a few others.
I look out the rain-splattered window and see green sweater. I smile, blow a kiss and look away.
“Somewhere, someone’s listening to The Replacements,” I say.
“Huh?” Josh says.
“Oh, nothing,” I reply.
No comments:
Post a Comment