We will dance with the planets tonight, I whispered. Shaking it down in a cosmic venue with just the right mix of niche board games, famously obscure bands, and a rack of IPAs to lure every cool kid for miles to its steel frame door, speeding through the tiny streets of Avondale like salvation hid behind its walls. We are dancing with the planets tonight, I whispered once more as we shuffled across its threshold towards the music. Once inside I fed my sticker obsession with two new bad boys. Perhaps this is an outward expression of my need to continually alter my own appearance, I thought to myself, plastering over the faded colors of past logos and bands with new ones Too existential though, for a show. So, I turned to the haunting voice above. It was the opener, angelic and vaguely patronizing, making jokes about BDSM and sodomy to try to shock the poor southerners she had come to culture for one night. I didn’t like her. I said this to no one in particular of course, as the main band had just roared on to the stage, trumpets wielded like bayonets with a blast into the crowd. We all jumped as the song hit its groove, and we started to groove too, my sisters and I. My head bobbed to the music, the edge of my glasses making me feel as though I was inhabiting the space just between the water and the sky. Like when you wear goggles and position your head halfway out of the murky depths. That feeling. It made me feel vaguely seasick- plus my newly acquired Buddy Holly-esque frames had the distinct pleasure of making me yet another of the dime a dozen indie rock “boi” hipsters with short sleeve collared shirts in funky patterns, glasses questionably needed, and some type of canvas shoe. So off came the glasses in sync with one especially emphatic cymbal burst from the stage. I glanced around at the assembled ensemble and thought well, some of us are dancing, the rest standing still like a stock photo.
They should be dancing with the planets I cry in my mind. A rave in the heavens, a mosh pit amongst the comets. But I must say I can’t blame these cardboard hipster people, just standing there in the still. They, or we, were used to operating slightly within the box, a function of conforming to southern niceties instilled in us from birth. “Space is the place,” the signs outside screamed in purple neon. And I looked around and felt acutely aware of the gathering that had ensued in this sacred hall. Every edgy alternative type, circa mid-1970s and onward was crammed in that room. It was a gathering of typically misfits become vanilla. And you could taste it. The sense that we were no longer among the pastel colored persons of our elementary school youth. Tattoos and piercings became the backdrop noise instead of a soloist. Maybe it’s me projecting. Maybe it’s not. But there was an air of being watched, and of watching. People froze like statues in spotlights, rigidly moving a finger or head tilting to the music. These people used to being stared at cracking under the gaze of another, fearful that their weird card might be revoked. Me? (and others of course) Standing there, letting the bass wash over and over, I could feel my shoulders start to wobble, my knee rhythmically unlocking and locking, my hand-me-down sandals tap-tap-tapping with the beat. Screams for the 5-piece wire rimmed glass wearing and mustache sporting group to belt their beloved cover of “Southern Nights” are shot down from the lead singer. He bashfully chuckled and hurried on with the set.
Maybe he knew then that this was not a southern night of the ones that old Neil Young sang of. That here in this spacey place there was something happening. We were collecting under one roof for one night, soon to disperse back out into that country club world, the stifling southern heat requiring strict adherence to the charm and poise of the magnolia mouth tongues uttering orders from their wicker chairs with their mason jar hands. And maybe we wanted to be reminded just once that this too could be a southern night. Maybe we wanted not to feel like a pity party, but inherently southern and proud, for a moment. The cries of Hotty Toddy and Roll Tide should have been symptoms enough of this. But I know we make the spaces we place ourselves in. And if space is the place, we can have a southern night up there boogying among the stars just yet.
A senior crazy about weird music and water policy!
