Thoughts On Going to Music Venues as a Young Man and a Not Quite So Young Man

I chose an outfit like dressing up for Halloween, trying to attain a level of cool and threat that I could not actually pull off. Torn jeans, camou jacket, old Chucks, tattered old Mets cap. It is vaguely ridiculous how long it took me to dress for the show, but I am comforted by the fact that everyone else is just as concerned. We have visions of the sort of people who turn up in music clubs in New York City to see punk-funk metal bands and we imagine them to be terrifying.

I don’t change clothes, I just pull on a hoodie and go downstairs to wait for my friend Ken. I’ve been wearing the same pants for three days in a row.

The New York City subway system is a mystery, a sordid, dirty series of tubes and hot, humid stations where people glare at us. In the confused dash for one transfer, two of us are left on the platform, staring through the grimy windows in abject horror as the rest of us are carried deeper into the city. They are never seen again, and may still be there.

Ken drives. We linger for a moment in the kitchen, slightly awkward in that way old friends who haven’t seen each other in a while can be. We chat while I compose myself, making sure I have keys, cards, phone. I lock up and we stroll around the corner to his car, new-ish and comfortable. He asks where we should grab some dinner before the show, then suggests a gourmet burger place he likes.

We pregame by pouring cheap vodka into soda cans, drinking as we walk to the club. The neighborhood is dirty and dark, the streets empty. The people we pass scare the shit out of us but we pretend they don’t, that this is a normal Friday evening for us, prowling Manhattan’s dank corners.

Ken and I stroll through Jersey City to the venue, chatting. People are hurrying home from work, carrying take-out orders, talking on their phones. We’re talking about video games, and how I lack the basic skills of survival to play them.

The club is crusty and dark, the music playing over the PA incredibly loud. None of us had believable IDs so we have been stamped as underage, which allows us to enter the club but does not allow us to drink. I get a soda just to go through the motions and am shocked when it costs me $8, which is one-third of the cash I have on me.

The club is largely empty. We’re frisked pretty thoroughly as we enter, but I’ve wised up over the years and when I enter public spaces these days I bring nothing but the absolute essentials. No bags, no extra layers, no totems in my pockets. I’ve sweated through too many shows and know it’s better to be slightly cold outside than boiling inside. There are two bright, welcoming bars and I buy us drinks, local beers from local breweries that cost me $14. I don’t carry cash any more, and am informed there’s a $20 minimum for credit cards, so I leave it open.

The opening band fires up and the club is quickly divided between people who just want to dance (and people who actually like the band) and the rest of us. The rest of us hang around the margins, nodding our heads while the mosh pit instantly spins up. It’s too loud to talk, so you just stand there and nod. I can feel the bass line through my sneakers. My ears are already overloaded.

The opening band takes the stage and a small crowd gathers. Ken and I stay at the bar and watch politely. They’re not bad, and have a few true fans in attendance. I keep trying to hear the name of the band but I keep missing it.

In the bathroom, a fight breaks out and I am shoved into the urinal I’m urinating into, which leaves me soaked in pisswater. I am momentarily angry, but then figure this augments my image as a bad motherfucker and decide to roll with it.

In the bathroom, there’s just one other guy. It smells like violets. We nod at each other.

The headliners takes the stage and I fight my way closer. A mosh pit opens up around me, and I’m thrown violently against the wall of people around us. I push off and dive back in; it’s not so much dancing as just crashing into people over and over again. My glasses get knocked off my face, and are swallowed in the maelstrom, never to be seen again.

The headliner takes the stage and we meander closer in. Everyone stands, swaying slightly. Some people lift their phones to film and take pictures.

Heading home, I’m soaked in sweat and exhausted, half-blind and half-deaf. It takes something like forever to navigate the subways and trains back home.

The show ends with a fake-out encore, and I ask Ken why bands still do this ridiculous thing. He has no answers. On the drive home we discuss our holiday plans, and when I get home The Duchess is waiting and is amazed that I am home so early.