”It’s only a twenty-minute set, but it could be worth a lifetime of humiliation. Just remember that. Years from now, you could be walking down the street in DC and somebody could come up to you and say, ‘Hey, weren’t you in that awful band? The one who played the Kaffa house in ’99? I was at that show! Man, did you guys suck. Anyway, how’s everything going?’.” -- Me, before the show on Saturday.
It’s funny. The more nervous I get, the sleepier I become. Before we left for the show I was asking Dirk and Aaron if we could just cancel it so I could take a nap. I just don’t react to stress in normal ways. I was also giving everyone my dire prediction that we would be mocked and beaten-up because we look like dorks. We don’t look particularly punk; certainly not to the extent of some of the people I saw at the show. Aaron had to keep telling me that we didn’t look like dorks, and most people are automatically intimidated by us. He might have been exaggerating just a bit to make me feel better, though.
I was immediately unimpressed by the Kaffa House, which is apparently a well-known (to everyone else) raggae club in D.C. There was this Rastafarian theme to the décor, with a sign on the fridge behind the bar that said Please “No” Marijuana Smoking. It was about the same size, in square feet, as the place where we saw the Goons play a few months ago. There was an alcove near the door where we put our equipment, since we were the second band playing. It was cool and rainy and I was wearing my blue and green Doc Martens because they were the only waterproof shoes I had left that weren’t meant to go with a skirt. We hung out by the equipment, talking to the guys from The Ghouls, watching men in Dreds come into the club, look at all the punks, and back out again.
I was talking to a pretty girl setting up a stand for the anti-racist action group. She was nice enough, if a little uptight. I guess it’s hard not to take yourself too seriously when you’ve got a specific cause. The Goombas, who were playing before us, had hardly any equipment. They were nice guys, but they were a little standoffish until they heard us play. They loosened up a lot after that.
My ex came to see us, which surprised me not at all. He brought his fiancee, which made me wonder how he convinced her to come along. Dirk kept referring to her as the Lovely Lady Oblivion because she was all decked out in black, which didn’t suit her. My ex also brought our ex-rhythm guitarist, Jason, and our ex-drummer, Paul, both of whom I was glad to see. They hadn’t changed a bit in the intervening time frame, which was a blessing. I talked to all of them (except the Lovely Lady Oblivion. She was giving off angry dog vibes.) and showed them the bass head Dirk bought me.
When they found out that we were the second band playing (and the Goombas, still waiting for equipment, had yet to begin their set), they decided to go out for some food, leaving the large Lovely Lady Oblivion sitting alone at the bar. I was, at first, worried she might become lonely, but she quickly found a friend in one of the sound crew members. They were very close, and I did notice when I passed that he was sucking on the back of her neck. She didn’t seem to mind, so I assumed she was enjoying herself. She went outside with him for a few minutes (I guess it was too loud at the bar for them to talk easily), then came back and resumed making out.
I didn’t mention anything to my ex because I assume they have an open relationship, and it would seem petty to bring up the fact that his lovely full-sized Lady Oblivion seems to be lacking in taste where men are concerned. At least as far as the men she allows to paw her rather ample body.
Too soon, it was time for our set to start. There was a slight problem with the microphones – two of them died as soon as the Goomba’s set was over. We had to replace one with our own, as I cracked jokes to the audience about whether or not the good Lord above had anything to do with the equipment failure. I didn’t see my ex or the other that had gone with him, and I was a bit disappointed by the thought that they’d miss us after coming so far to see our show.
Our set (in my humble opinion) was fantastic. We were hard, we were fast, we were together, and we were energetic. At one point I was dancing to our mockery of Green Day’s “When I Come Around” and making a complete ass out of myself and I didn’t care. I just didn’t care. They even started moshing at some points, one of them being (ironically) during “I Can’t Mosh.” I’ve never felt so much adrenaline rushing through my system. I’ve never felt so much like I belonged. I never truly understood why I wanted to be in a band. I know now. I love this shit, and I love playing, and I love knowing that other people can understand why I like our music so much that I’d play it day after day, week after week.
Don’t get me wrong. I also loved the applause, and I loved the way people came up to me afterwards to tell us how good we were. I was so high from the adrenaline that I picked up my bass head (which is normally so heavy it strains my arm) and carried it to the back without thinking.
My ex and the others had made it back in time to see the entire set (I found out afterwards), and they seemed at a loss for words; or perhaps they were just being polite. They left quickly. I suppose they’d only come to see us play. At any rate, the Ghouls loved us so much that they dedicated a song to us. I was in love with everyone I knew after we played.
We loaded the gear into the cars and saw the next couple of bands (with me and a couple others standing near the cars to make certain nothing untoward happened). The club had been ¾ full when we played, when we were done it was full and people were spilling out into the street. We eventually went home and got food. I didn’t want the night to end because it had been so perfect.
I want to do another show. Now. Unfortunately, I’m going to have to wait and see if we can get on the ticket for a Halloween show.
