You Sweaty Scenester Bastard!
I've successfully made the trek to Kansas, despite minor hangups at the border and a nightmarish experience with a caged, incontinent, woolly poop machine in my backseat. I will post the details later if I'm feeling sadistic. Anyhow, my sister took me to a concert tonight. Ah the joys of the Wichita indie "scene."
Okay, so we saw the band Chiodos. They're not really my usual style, but they rocked pretty damn hard, and I had fun my with my sister. I seriously hope that I regain my hearing. Apparently, the show was supposed to be an eighteen-and-over affair at the wonderfully adequate J.C.'s House of Rock.
Upon arriving at the House of Rock, I find: 1) This is apparently not an eighteen-and-over show. This is made apparent by the fact that 2) The mean age of the crowd is approximately 16.7. At this point, I begin to feel like a cross between a chaperone, loser bastard, and dirty old man. I've just quit smoking, and am dismayed to find that 3) People around the age of 16.7 in Wichita think smoking looks really cool. I never realized just how irritating clove cigarettes are until I shared the air for three hours with a 16 year old scenester choad who won't man up and buy a pack of Marlboros. Oh, yeah, and: 4) Three people were apparently murdered in this club a few years ago, when it was a swingin' hispanic club with the creative and enigmatic name of Club Mexico. Amanda may post some extra grisly stuff later, as she has been crawling Google with the determination and vigor of a hungry Shih-Tzu at a Sunday picnic. Suffice it to say that they had to change their full name from "Club Mexico: Where We Won't Shoot And Dismember You," to the more austere, "Club Mexico."
This set the tone for the evening (in fact the opening band even invoked the spirits of the slain men in a desperate ploy to appear edgy, even relevant). It's me, my sister, and 300 16-year old indie kids. And there's no bar in sight. As I watched the bands I spied such interesting folk as: "Guy in a camo t-shirt, tight girl's jeans, white belt, and giant white sweatband parading around with an inflatable sword (lest we mistake him for someone normal)" and "Girl with shag haircut and contemporary t-shirt #327." I was educated in the ways of "hardcore dancing" by about 10 under 18 punks in varying stages of undress, and got to watch most Chiodos from behind a large man in a sweaty System of a Down t-shirt that smelled like a giant bag of anuses. Fun. Oh, and then there was the "dancer" whose pants were slowly heading south as he gyrated arrhythmically to the rhythmic sounds of Chiodos, revealing his blue BVDs. It was all that I could do to keep from grabbing the waistband of this scrawny little scenester bastard's undergarment and giving him the wedgie to end all wedgies, refusing to let go until the waistband broke, tugging with the might of some mythical wedgie beast--part crocodile, part hippopotamus, part lion, 100 percent ass-rending terror. Seriously. My sister had to hold me back.
Despite my grumpy grumblings, I did have fun with my sister and Chiodos were pretty cool (if a little loud for my aging ears). Sorry about the wedgie beast, I had to go to the dentist and all they had to read besides Marie Claire and Highlights was an aging National Geographic about the Egyptian afterlife. One man's souleater is another's wedgie beast. Also, I found the bar as we were leaving. It looked nice.
Okay, so we saw the band Chiodos. They're not really my usual style, but they rocked pretty damn hard, and I had fun my with my sister. I seriously hope that I regain my hearing. Apparently, the show was supposed to be an eighteen-and-over affair at the wonderfully adequate J.C.'s House of Rock.
Upon arriving at the House of Rock, I find: 1) This is apparently not an eighteen-and-over show. This is made apparent by the fact that 2) The mean age of the crowd is approximately 16.7. At this point, I begin to feel like a cross between a chaperone, loser bastard, and dirty old man. I've just quit smoking, and am dismayed to find that 3) People around the age of 16.7 in Wichita think smoking looks really cool. I never realized just how irritating clove cigarettes are until I shared the air for three hours with a 16 year old scenester choad who won't man up and buy a pack of Marlboros. Oh, yeah, and: 4) Three people were apparently murdered in this club a few years ago, when it was a swingin' hispanic club with the creative and enigmatic name of Club Mexico. Amanda may post some extra grisly stuff later, as she has been crawling Google with the determination and vigor of a hungry Shih-Tzu at a Sunday picnic. Suffice it to say that they had to change their full name from "Club Mexico: Where We Won't Shoot And Dismember You," to the more austere, "Club Mexico."
This set the tone for the evening (in fact the opening band even invoked the spirits of the slain men in a desperate ploy to appear edgy, even relevant). It's me, my sister, and 300 16-year old indie kids. And there's no bar in sight. As I watched the bands I spied such interesting folk as: "Guy in a camo t-shirt, tight girl's jeans, white belt, and giant white sweatband parading around with an inflatable sword (lest we mistake him for someone normal)" and "Girl with shag haircut and contemporary t-shirt #327." I was educated in the ways of "hardcore dancing" by about 10 under 18 punks in varying stages of undress, and got to watch most Chiodos from behind a large man in a sweaty System of a Down t-shirt that smelled like a giant bag of anuses. Fun. Oh, and then there was the "dancer" whose pants were slowly heading south as he gyrated arrhythmically to the rhythmic sounds of Chiodos, revealing his blue BVDs. It was all that I could do to keep from grabbing the waistband of this scrawny little scenester bastard's undergarment and giving him the wedgie to end all wedgies, refusing to let go until the waistband broke, tugging with the might of some mythical wedgie beast--part crocodile, part hippopotamus, part lion, 100 percent ass-rending terror. Seriously. My sister had to hold me back.
Despite my grumpy grumblings, I did have fun with my sister and Chiodos were pretty cool (if a little loud for my aging ears). Sorry about the wedgie beast, I had to go to the dentist and all they had to read besides Marie Claire and Highlights was an aging National Geographic about the Egyptian afterlife. One man's souleater is another's wedgie beast. Also, I found the bar as we were leaving. It looked nice.
posted by Justin at 1:59 AM
3 Comments:
It is possible that the mini-indie-rockers were actually German ... there seems to be a lot of similar fashion decisions going on here, in public, at 9 in the morning.
Also, the mullett has come back.
Be afraid.
Believe me, I am afraid. Although this just further proves my theory:
Mid 2000 Emo-Rock = Late 80's Hair Metal
Seriously, the insidious thing is that it's all about the scene, and big business music interests have figured out how to manufacture some sense of underground hipness. It's cool to be an outsider--everyone's doing it. The plot is so deliciously clever that I really have to respect the major label marketing wonks behind it, even if I find the music vapid and formulaic (and also really easy to play...go figure).
Also, apparently "screamo" is a word. Huh. I think it's time to dig out the Tool albums and seethe.
Sir, I have added you to my new blogger blog bloggie blog. Now you have no reason to avoid me other than the obvious.
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