I guess I'll know when I get there
Last night I got home from work and decided, mostly on impulse, to go see Reverend Horton Heat at First Avenue. It was pretty much a self-dare. Well, I thought to myself, I'll show me! And headed back out the door and caught the next bus downtown. I couldn't even quite remember which stop I wanted, so I just got off at the Mary Tyler Moore statue (didn't hit my head on it this time) and struck off down a vaguely-remembered street.
Whenever I do something like this, it's like some kind of intentionally induced mania, where I suspect I subconsciously avoid thinking too much about anything because then I might start thinking things like "man it's cold" and "what am I doing going to a show by myself?" and "holy crap where am I?!" and then, dang, who knows what I'd do. So I just grin and pick a direction and hope for the best.
I almost gave up and turned down a side street when I caught sight of the wall of painted stars: it was First Avenue. I'd lucked out. I ambled on in, bought a ticket, and wandered into the main room. And panicked just slightly.
There I was, all alone in a club packed with people I didn't know, to see a band I didn't really know, and I wasn't even sure how long it would be until the opening act started. And as for blending in, let's just say I was the only "bright red peacoat and faded purple hair" ensemble in a sea of "black leather with varying degrees of metal studding and bleach-white spiked hair." I guess showing up to a psychobilly show in a jaunty red wool coat is sort of like attending the opera in a bikini and boots.
For somebody who likes to be inconspicuous, I sure am pretty damn bad at it.
I couldn't find an open out-of-the-way spot to lean against a wall and wait it out, but I didn't want to spend the whole time wandering in circles. I actually felt so silly and out of place that I started to think about leaving. Then, as I'm standing by the stairs, I tune in on the conversation of two guys passing by: "mumble mumble yeah, man, they've even got some crazy Japanese movie playing!"
And I look up to find Sanjuro staring back at me from one of the myriad TV screens circling the room. They're not just playing any old crazy Japanese movie, they're playing my favorite crazy Japanese movie. For some bizarre reason, they were playing Yojimbo.
Sometimes the dumbest things cropping up in the weirdest places can make all the difference. It's like how I remember one night in Greece I was feeling a little homesick, and I glanced out the hotel room window to see the big dipper, poised to spill the same milky stars over Athens as brightly as it would over Aitkin county. And now here I was standing in a swarm of punked out leather jackets, watching Toshiro Mifune raise cain in a black and white Kurosawa town. It may seem a little silly, but it was the tiny bit of familiarity I needed.
I found a spot along a rail and settled in for the long haul.
And as turns out, Reverend Horton Heat was totally worth the trouble.
Whenever I do something like this, it's like some kind of intentionally induced mania, where I suspect I subconsciously avoid thinking too much about anything because then I might start thinking things like "man it's cold" and "what am I doing going to a show by myself?" and "holy crap where am I?!" and then, dang, who knows what I'd do. So I just grin and pick a direction and hope for the best.
I almost gave up and turned down a side street when I caught sight of the wall of painted stars: it was First Avenue. I'd lucked out. I ambled on in, bought a ticket, and wandered into the main room. And panicked just slightly.
There I was, all alone in a club packed with people I didn't know, to see a band I didn't really know, and I wasn't even sure how long it would be until the opening act started. And as for blending in, let's just say I was the only "bright red peacoat and faded purple hair" ensemble in a sea of "black leather with varying degrees of metal studding and bleach-white spiked hair." I guess showing up to a psychobilly show in a jaunty red wool coat is sort of like attending the opera in a bikini and boots.
For somebody who likes to be inconspicuous, I sure am pretty damn bad at it.
I couldn't find an open out-of-the-way spot to lean against a wall and wait it out, but I didn't want to spend the whole time wandering in circles. I actually felt so silly and out of place that I started to think about leaving. Then, as I'm standing by the stairs, I tune in on the conversation of two guys passing by: "mumble mumble yeah, man, they've even got some crazy Japanese movie playing!"
And I look up to find Sanjuro staring back at me from one of the myriad TV screens circling the room. They're not just playing any old crazy Japanese movie, they're playing my favorite crazy Japanese movie. For some bizarre reason, they were playing Yojimbo.
Sometimes the dumbest things cropping up in the weirdest places can make all the difference. It's like how I remember one night in Greece I was feeling a little homesick, and I glanced out the hotel room window to see the big dipper, poised to spill the same milky stars over Athens as brightly as it would over Aitkin county. And now here I was standing in a swarm of punked out leather jackets, watching Toshiro Mifune raise cain in a black and white Kurosawa town. It may seem a little silly, but it was the tiny bit of familiarity I needed.
I found a spot along a rail and settled in for the long haul.
And as turns out, Reverend Horton Heat was totally worth the trouble.
posted by Betsi at 8:45 PM
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