About a week ago I got a chance to see my favorite live Mississippi blues duo Cedric Burnside and Lightnin’ Malcolm in an unlikely place: DC’s Rock & Roll Hotel.
Lightnin' Malcolm at the Lyric Theatre.
My relationship with these guys goes way back to my sophomore year at Ole Miss. Friends had been raving about this thing in the Mississippi Delta called the Juke Joint Festival. Billed as a blues-packed weekend with monkeys riding dogs, pig races, tamales, and barbecue, a friend and I tried it out (and I’ve been every year since). It poured that weekend, and in the rain we only made it to two nighttime indoor shows. But a blind 12-year-old doing “Voodoo Child” on a guitar held behind his head and the then-unknown-to-me duo who fell through My Brother’s Sport Bar’s front window during a set has forever left me craving more. (Sadly I missed the shattering antics that night — Ced and Malcolm had infused me with enough rhythm to start some of my own.)
Aside from my Hill Country deflowering in Clarksdale, I’ve seen the Two-Man Wrecking Crew in Oxford’s Lyric Theatre and at other Juke Joint fests in the Hopson Juke Joint Chapel, my favorite venue. In the Juke Joint Chapel, the blues creates pure magic. You’re drunk, whirling, and gyrating. Bubbles are pumping out of some contraption and popping on cotton flowers stapled to the walls. Some ancient cash register’s lodged in the corner where you fling your purse and shoes. The place moves. Oxford was a different story, a more pretentious crowd and a deserted dance floor (save myself and a few diehard Ced and Malcolm fans).
That brings us to the Rock & Roll Hotel. Surprisingly the show was sold out. With no other choice (I pleaded to buy a ticket), I slipped in. I might not have been alone in that. Apparently the Hotel has a bad rep for overselling shows, and they must have oversold this one, too. I’d honestly been expecting the place to be empty, but apparently the main act Black Joe Lewis and the Honeybears is some big deal.
I guess nobody ever goes to see the opening act, but that’s why I was there. I wanted to dance my ass off, in typical seedy blues hub fashion. Actually, in typical anything musical fashion. If you’ve ever been out with a group of my high school friends, you know how we dance. The point is having a bit of goddamn fun and joining us. We exist to get things going.
So, here I was dancing away as much as I could without feeling like an idiot. (Crazy dancing really doesn’t work unless you’re mobbing it.) Nobody else seemed very excited. This I later confirmed as Ced and Malcolm left the stage. Some bitch next to me says, “This is going to be the upscale part of the show.” I whisper this to the fellow Mississippian accompanying me. I spot a bunch of hipsters wearing horn-rimmed glasses. Oh god. They’re with the next band, he informs me.
Cedric Burnside, pure soul.
I make my way to the restroom upstairs. It’s fairly easy following people bobbing their ways through the crowd. Upstairs I congratulate Cedric (grandson of R.L., mind you) on a great set. I might be his only fan who said hi. Probably the only Mississippian. My way back to my spot up front is hell, as you’d assume. But more than one person takes the initiative to say something like “Sweetie, this would be easier if I knew where you were going” or “People here are so rude.” I’m thinking, this is a show, people push, people grab asses, people have to get through a crowd. Is a tap on the shoulder not enough warning? In New Orleans we elbow, pinch, and push like hell. These pretentious Washingtonians are ridiculous.
Then, back at my righteous (unpaid for) spot up front, possibly the same bitch asks if my friend and I are from Virginia. No, Mississippi I tell her. “I figured they had to be from somewhere there was more space” she loudly tells her man.
So, not a great concert experience. We danced her away apparently.
Is that rude? Is dancing rude? Can your platonic dancing encroach on others? Should you care? In the Delta, we’re all one big family dancing wildly all over. It can be closer than comfortable and borderline creepy sometimes. It’s all in good fun.
Maybe I just hate hipster crowds. While seeing Andrew Bird in Oxford, he complained the audience was being too loud. Carnegie Hall appreciated him. Yeah, fuck you Andrew Bird. Several people got mad at my friends and me for dancing how we dance. “I came here to see Andrew Bird, not you dancing” they told us. Yeah, fuck you, too. Go listen to music on your sofa if you don’t want to be close and get crazy. What did you think this was for, glass figurines?
So, what’s your take on dancing, pushing, concerts, and the like? Should we all try to be super polite Washingtonians with sticks up our asses? Do you buy into concert equality? Does crossing party lines and embracing diversity involve remaining in your narrow, horn-rimmed bubble?
Don’t listen to fools… P.S. What’s a hipster? I see it everywhere but I’m not entirely sure – something between a mod and a hippie?
Wow, Sky, really? What’s a hipster? I fucking love hipsters and spotting them and watching them and pretending to be one also.
From Urban Dictionary: Listens to bands that you have never heard of. Has hairstyle that can only be described as “complicated.” (Most likely achieved by a minimum of one week not washing it.) Probably tattooed. Maybe gay. Definitely cooler than you. Reads Black Book, Nylon, and the Styles section of the New York Times. Drinks Pabst Blue Ribbon. Often. Complains. Always denies being a hipster. Hates the word. Probably living off parents money – and spends a great deal of it to look like they don’t have any. Has friends and/or self cut hair. Dyes it frequently (black, white-blonde, etc. and until scalp bleeds). Has a closet full of clothing but usually wears same three things OVER AND OVER (most likely very tight black pants, scarf, and ironic tee-shirt). Chips off nail polish artfully after $50 manicure. Sleeps with everyone and talks about it at great volume in crowded coffee shops. Addicted to coffee, cigarettes (Parliaments, Kamel Reds, Lucky Strikes, etc.), and possibly cocaine. Claims to be in a band. Rehearsals consist of choosing outfits for next show and drinking PBR. Always on the list. Majors or majored in art, writing, or queer studies. Name-drops. May go by “Penny Lane,” “Eleanor Rigby,” etc. when drunk. On PBR. Which is usually.
And for a little visual evidence: http://www.latfh.com/
They’re just so funny. So cutting edge, underground, hip, cool.
And here’s a brilliant WaPo story about what happened when a Target moved into the hipster zone of DC: http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2009/08/03/AR2009080302815.html
P.S. I have some of the funniest hipster stories.
I have a hipster handbook, you know, a field guide to identifying them and being one. When I met one of my best friends, she checked it out. A black and white pic of her fell out of said hipster handbook. Another friend of ours had planted it knowing she’d would love that book.
And then once Aspen and I went to gay night at an awesome venue here in DC. We brought home some hipsters who we thought were gay. They wanted to have group sex. When I was like, “What? You’re not gay?” they said gender didn’t matter. Very hipster. One had an ugly mustache. The other had socialism tattoos.
I think maybe there aren’t many hipsters in Winnipeg. It probably has something to do with the climate.
I remember meeting up with a friend of mine who had been living in Europe for many years – he was visiting home with his wife from Poland. As we were talking (in a bar), she looked around and asked me if it was fashion for everyone to wear hats indoors – everyone was wearing tuques of course, because it was winter. I said, no, when it’s this cold out, no one really cares what you look like.
Probably not fertile soil for hipsters.
P.S. We don’t have Target, but I gather it’s sort of like Walmart??
I wouldn’t think Poland and Winnipeg have wildly different climates. Maybe the Polish are just that much more fashionable.
And Target is a cooler Wal Mart. I actually wear their clothes, like their jewelry, love their interesting store brand food, and that particular target in Columbia Heights has an elevator for carts, which is teh awesome. Supposedly you can feel good about the world and shop at Target because it’s allegedly not as evil as Wal Mart.
I mean escalator. Elevators are nothing new.