Tonight I went to a concert that could have been dreamed out of David Lynch's
The headliners were the New York band Calla
, who are pretty fucking great. The venue was new, to me at least. Apparently the Doug Fir Lounge
went up right after I left for China. It's in the basement of this place called the "Juniper Hotel", which is a small, but expensive looking hotel.
Diane: I am now entering the town of Twin Peaks. The whole place looks like a vivisection of the Great Northern. You walk downstairs and the entire interior is faux cedar logs. I am in the Roadhouse. The stage is only lit from the back in red, no front lighting for the bands; odd.
Whatever for now. Local band (one dude) Quiet Countries
plays, then Celebration[?] plays, both good. Great. Then Calla plays, I'm feeling it, good times. Calla is a minor key sort band. I go to that moody place. We are moving up on the fifth song.
That's when they start to dance. Three older folks, at least 65. In suit pants, shirts tucked in. The woman is wearing pearls. They rock out. I bust out laughing, they don't notice. They mash potato; synchronized mash potato. They spin each other. They are soooo drunk. I am not enough so, apparently. They are the scary old folks from Mulholland Drive. But this time they don't represent any shattered Hollywood dreams, just a disruptive concert experience.
These folks are obviously staying at the hotel upstairs. There were others like them hanging in the back, but they had the good sense to stay there and not party up front.
Let me be clear, I don't begrudge moms and pops the opportunity to rock. If you have the music in your heart, well then who cares? Well, as I see it, there are 180 degrees of location you can stand in front of the stage. Why then, do you choose to do your old people crazy dance RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME? How the hell am I supposed to focus?
I move to stage left. A older tubby dude rises from his chair, and proceeds to boogie down in front of me. DAMNIT. Fine! Calla finishes. I bus it home.