About a month ago I went to see Ratatat play at the 930 Club. A friend dragged me to their show last fall at the Black Cat before I knew anything about the band. I spent most of the night scowling at the bar, covering my ears, and trying to avoid being knocked in the head by a frenetic middle-aged man (who I later learned was the guitarist’s uncle). It was only toward the end of the show that I found myself loosening my earmuffs to really listen. It reminded me of the scene at the beginning of A Clockwork Orange when Alex has just wailed on someone, and he goes home and lays down to listen to “Ludwig Von” and falls deep into a psychopathic euphoria. Minus the wailing. Or maybe a different kind of wailing coming from the mix of guitar, bass, and sometimes a synthesizer/drum machine/piece of equipment whose mechanics I don’t pretend to understand. There’s no singing, but every so often they throw in a loop with the sound of a wildcat screeching or a Biggie sample. And the whole time, the two tragically indie band members are bending over their guitars in parallel, spread legged and knock-kneed, with stringy hair mostly obscuring their faces like skinnier versions of Wayne and Garth. I left that night intrigued (and slightly deaf).
So when they came back to DC a month or so ago, I decided to try them out again, but this time I couldn’t wrangle any of my friends to come with. Upon walking in I’m immediately aware that I’m one of the oldest persons there. I station myself propped against the bar to the right of the stage, and do my best “I’m a mature music fan who’s secure enough to come out to see a band alone what motherfucker” lean and vaguely scan the crowd. There’s one of those suburban, quintessentially teenage couples in front of me. The girlfriend’s greasy blonde hair hangs over a spaghetti strap tee that stops a good nine inches above her waistline, leaving a clear view of back fat that squidges over the sides of too-tight, low rider jeans. Her BF stands behind her in a baggy spitfire hoodie and cargo shorts, one arm wrapped around her waist, the other punching the air with devils horns raised. There is no music playing.
The fear hits me – I may need to resign myself to the ugly reality that I like a teenybopper band. “How did you get here?” I want to scream at the pimply-faced tween next to me, “cause I know you didn’t drive!” Before I have a chance to find out, the band comes on stage and the crowd goes suitably wild.
My stronghold at the bar is almost instantly breached. The dude in front of me to the right, who’s roughly seven feet tall and a buck o’five, stretches out his bony arms, weeping with scabs, past either side of my face and shrieks “ERICA!” What can only be “Erica” hurtles through the crowd to our corner, and they jump madly up and down, throwing ‘bows left and right. This continues for about a week, until I’m holding back by a hair my blind seething desire to quickly and silently snap their necks between my gnarled-with-rage fingers. It’s too loud to say, “Excuse me, but you and your tweaker friend are trampling my ballet flats. Can you please step off?” So, after a few of my not-so-subtle “I’m right here” nudges go unacknowledged, I place my hand on her shoulder to steady myself and slide out from behind her. The death stare I get is only matched by the slew of curses that follows. “Well, just loooook at theeeese bitches! Standing with their haaands in their pockets, nooooot dancing! Who the f@#$k do theeeeeey think they aaaaare!” Just then the guitars blare into the first song, and I turn toward the stage, leaving her smeary maw noiselessly opening and closing like a fish.
Somehow I keep my cool and enjoy the show. But then, I’m a mature music fan who’s secure enough to come out to a see a band alone what motherfucker.
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