Into Madison we drive, MHG and me, the smell of humidity heavy around us like a sweater tied around our shoulders. A wet sweater, as though someone had perspired in it all day and slapped it, sopping, onto us without bothering to wring it out first. I begin to regret my earlier choice of jeans instead of shorts and kick my shoes onto the floor of the car, pushing them aside with my socked feet so they won’t get under the accelerator.
Around us is the milling life of a college town rife with over-emphasized individuals. Here a bobbing set of dreadlocks, there a flowy, flowery summer dress, and there a parrot plumage of biking spandex. Brick walls and neon, car horns and ecstatic laughter, and the queer silence underneath; a city’s stillness.
We skirt the capitol building at right angles. Mostly, I am ignored, but my companion is the unwitting and unaffected recipient of several gapes. Her hair is a sweep of rich browns and reds interrupted by chrome goggles pressed up above her forehead. Around her middle is a frayed heavy-duty red strap of a belt assisting her olive drab fatigues in resting on her shapely hips. Above that, her body is hidden by a red-trimmed shirt, the sleeves cut away for the upper portions of her arms, covered further by a V-shaped bulletproof vest over her torso. Red jewels on her eyelids barely glance back at the lingering stares and her gait becomes a steady thump as heavy rubber soles percuss at my side.
I, in my jeans and T-shirt, get to remain anonymous, while she plays celestial wonder. Until we see a familiar face. A matronly figure, family and distinguished. She suppresses an involuntary sneer and makes small talk with us. Who is the more uncomfortable? We have to explain in universal terms, like a marketer renaming a complex dietary molecule into a simple, accessible terms. A rock concert, yes. Our friend is playing. We’re also doing a bit of promotion for her store. Have a good night. Thanks.
Around the corner, we finally spy our destination. The door is recessed into the wall, but the flesh and vinyl outside is our magnetic pole. As we get our hands marked in ballpoint pen, the doorman is polite, but it’s clear one of these guests is not like the other. Not surprisingly, I am the only one in the building neglectful of black attire. My hair is not dyed nor even styled, I have no tattoos, no piercings, no scars, not even a recognizable sense of exposed self. Who am I? plead the gazes of those around me who bother to look. And I haven’t the energy to make a daring reply. I do not look back in defiance, but I am not unaffected. Merely too old, too tired to transform into something more than an overlooked oddity in a room full of in-your-faces.
Disjointed, arhythmic noise accompanies the first duo onto the stage, and we rustle through the crowd avoiding stilettos of gelled hair. As we find a seat, two college-aged men, who look far younger, press amperage into sound walls and smash bits and bytes into notes. The vocals come out a smear of strained screaming and auditory pixel bursts. In between sets, the singer is cordial and chit-chats with the nearbys until the next salvo of beats is locked and loaded. Plagued by sound trouble, the fledgling musicians never quite find their stride, though the product of their experiments is art deco for the ears.
MHG and I listen in theatre seats, comfortably set aside, nodding with the pulse of the room. We drink Diet Coke. Alcohol would loosen me up, but I want to be tense lest I slip into my fool’s act and garner approval that I cannot maintain. Without them, within me, I’m at peace. The mood is The Destructors and I’m pleased to observe. She leans in my ear and leaves insights about the bands, but I am a quiet contented smile.
Four more people move onto the stage; black wires surround them that stretch everywhere with the humming birth of electricity. Everything is shadow and neon, epileptic swirls of sound and shimmer. We know the bass player, B. Our ears take sharp focus. Later, we share the same disappointment in the vocals’ volume, the same incredulity at the drummer who sounds like a machine. We are duly impressed, happy in the dark, and B. is gracious in accepting our praise.
I get a look from mohawked muscle when I ask him to toss my bottle in the trash. The crowd is too thick to not push through and he’s conveniently located. Later, I’m told that he’s the front man for the headlining group. And while I normally would simply buy a beer to make up for any slights, I find this crowd querulous when I offer.
Each pause between groups is marked by an exodus to the front of the building, some for smokes, but all to escape the heat of the venue. And each time, I am only comfortable as a hedge attendant, permitted to stand on the curb nearby and blend with the gawking, sheltered pedestrians whose expressions can only be summarized as “fear and wonder.” Each time on the curb should be another stripe on my sleeve. But instead I feel only that they are waiting for me to leave so they can start the real party.
B. comes out with us this time. As is polite and customary, he introduces us to people who show obvious disinterest. B. is always charming, cerebral without condescension, adventurous and self-aware. He wants us to feel welcome, and I almost do. As I think upcoming words, I want to punch myself unconscious and drag myself through the gutter, but this has “never been my scene.” And no matter how accepting a subculture one stumbles upon, there are always rites and canon that must be observed. I would have been open to them … ago, and I feel old. Being old is knowing who you are, whether you like it or not.
And even after the third band lifts their own veil of conceit, thrashing about with Nintendo-fueled glee, I am checking the clock and watching the door. I want to get the Gothsicles to sit down with me over a beer. I want to be a Rolling Stone journalist and have their attention. But I am less than forgettable, and while I’m too far into my life to be hurt by it, I am disconcerted. I could be cool, and I don’t want to bother.
A malingering awareness of mortality makes the ride home miserable. I’m tired at 2. B. would have been happy for us to stay out and MHG could easily have had some fun. But me, I’m clearly spent, barely able to complete a sentence and slapping myself awake. In bed, at four, I wonder whether I could insinuate myself into that lifestyle. Do I want to become a goth? Probably not. But younger days as a social chameleon have seen their sunsets. And without my knowledge or consent I have resigned myself to life where parties are slowly becoming gatherings, where binges turn into stories rather than habits and where fresh atmospheres can be stifling rather than exhilirating.
And all I got was a crummy black T-shirt.
p.s. I really did enjoy the show. The bands were prop-ah!
