Physics makes us all its bitches.
Wow, long time.
Since I've last posted, I've (a) moved out of Canada; (b) moved back to Lawrence, KS; (c) started teaching at KU, my non-alma-mater, but I like to think alma-mater-in-law, or rather ex-alma-mater-in-law.
I was a bit nervous, I have to say, about moving back here. Would I run into too many people from my high school years that I don't want to see, well, ever again? Would I return to my old bad habits, become the sort of dude that I'm not really all that proud of having been back in those days? The answer, it would seem, is no. Part of this is because I've changed, but part of it is also that the town has changed. Lawrence, you see, is a town that is permeated by the University--every inch of it has something or other to do with KU. So every four years or so the character of the town completely changes as the last round of students rotates out of Lawrence and back to the world.
Also, however, I'm noticing a number of things about the town that I would only have noticed after having gotten a little longer in the tooth. The Red Lyon, with its faux-British-pubness, now seems like a distinctly less cool place to hang out than the 8th Street Taproom, with its dark, simple, uncrowded atmosphere.
This bit of strange self-awareness came about a week ago, when I cajoled Madeline into accompanying me to the "Of Montreal" show at Liberty Hall. Now, a little history is in order. Liberty Hall is a grand old concert hall in the middle of downtown Lawrence, but it was also a prime destination for me when it came to taking in rock shows as a high-schooler. Liberty Hall was where I saw Urge Overkill, the Mighty Mighty Bosstones, Nirvana, Bela Fleck and the Flecktones, and a number of others I'm forgetting. One of the great things about Liberty, however, was that all concerts are GA and despite its size; the venue is also relatively intimate. Consequently, there is much clamoring before the doors open to get in prime position to snag a spot at the stage, mere inches away from the performers. I recall participating in this mad dash many times. So when it came time to go to the "Of Montreal" show, I followed protocol: we better get there way early so we can get a top spot.
But it was cold that night. I had a blazer, but still, not enough for warmth. Madeline was game to wait in line, but I could see that she was uncomfortable. So I said, screw it. We'll still be on the floor, and that will be fun enough. So we went and got a cup of coffee, and hung around in Liberty Hall's video rental outlet until the line started moving. We were a ways back. That's when it hit me: am I too old for this? Walking to the back of the line was like walking to the back of the line for a "just got my driver's license" convention. 16-year-olds abound. Am I too old? After all, I did decide to not wait in line for the sake of being a little warmer. Do I have to give up my rock-show cred?
It got worse. Liberty Hall is set up like this. When you finally get in the door you have a choice: enter the main hall on the floor, or go up the stairs to the balcony, which has seats. Looking at these two options, it immediately hit me that if I went down to the floor, I'd be standing for, like, three hours at least. It would be really loud, way louder than if I sat down on the balcony. Furthermore, memories of what being on the floor used to be like flashed into my brain: half-drunk idiots spinning around, banging into you. Tall jerks standing right in front of you rather than standing in a place that is more appropriate given their height. Stupid little boys "accidentally" groping the females in your party. Finally, it hit me: better go upstairs. Better simply admit defeat, brother: you are too old for this. This is a kid's game and you, at best, are a stone's throw from middle-age.
Waiting for the show I was disappointed in myself. I could see the kids down on the floor anxiously awaiting the band. I could see them hanging on every roadie's bump of the curtain, waiting for a clue that the band was just a few feet away. I was jealous. Here I was on the balcony. Pain free, of course, but somehow removed. There were some people around me, of course, but I felt like we were, I dunno, like the aristocrats sitting in their special seats, comfortable, perhaps, but not really engaged. At more than one point, I thought to myself: why did I even buy these tickets if I'm not really going to see the show?
But then the show started. It was powerful, moving. Lots of dance tunes and disco numbers. And that's when I noticed something very interesting. Looking down at the floor I expected to see the usual pushing and shoving, get-out-of-my-way angry mentality that usually characterized rock shows. But no: people were simply dancing. They were mimicking the words, jumping up and down, but in a way that was collectively joyful, rather than aggressive. And right then I had a realization: I am older. And I am too old for the floor. But that's ok. My generation of rock-show attendees had a heirarchical order built-in: if you weren't on the floor, you weren't shit. You didn't really care. But this group seemed simply content to enjoy the music and dance. And suddenly I felt glad I came. I could enjoy the music and be a part of the audience. It was as if the kids on the floor were welcoming me: we know you're older. We know you're in the balcony. But it's all good. Let's all enjoy this. Let's dance together.
And all of a sudden, like, my whole life was put into a grand relief: here I am living in Lawrence, the site of my youth, but in a way that is different. In a way that is more fully a realization of who I am now. This town, like these kids, are welcoming at any age. There is now so much new to discover. Looking at these kids, I felt like the Grinch seeing Whoville singing even after all the presents were stolen.
And then it all came crashing down.
The final song "Of Montreal" played was a curious choice: "Smells Like Teen Spirit." And no sooner had they hit the big four-chord riff, were kids slamming into each other, pushing and shoving, getting into fights, looking generally angry and pissed-off. One of the dance performers, a female, jumped off the stage to crowd-surf. By the time she got back on stage, her silver wig had been ripped off, and torn, and she mouthed: "You fucking assholes!" and gave them all a collective double-fisted single-fingered "fuck you!" salute. By the time I made it out of Liberty Hall, I noticed more than one kid with a bloody nose.
Ah, you can go home again.
Since I've last posted, I've (a) moved out of Canada; (b) moved back to Lawrence, KS; (c) started teaching at KU, my non-alma-mater, but I like to think alma-mater-in-law, or rather ex-alma-mater-in-law.
I was a bit nervous, I have to say, about moving back here. Would I run into too many people from my high school years that I don't want to see, well, ever again? Would I return to my old bad habits, become the sort of dude that I'm not really all that proud of having been back in those days? The answer, it would seem, is no. Part of this is because I've changed, but part of it is also that the town has changed. Lawrence, you see, is a town that is permeated by the University--every inch of it has something or other to do with KU. So every four years or so the character of the town completely changes as the last round of students rotates out of Lawrence and back to the world.
Also, however, I'm noticing a number of things about the town that I would only have noticed after having gotten a little longer in the tooth. The Red Lyon, with its faux-British-pubness, now seems like a distinctly less cool place to hang out than the 8th Street Taproom, with its dark, simple, uncrowded atmosphere.
This bit of strange self-awareness came about a week ago, when I cajoled Madeline into accompanying me to the "Of Montreal" show at Liberty Hall. Now, a little history is in order. Liberty Hall is a grand old concert hall in the middle of downtown Lawrence, but it was also a prime destination for me when it came to taking in rock shows as a high-schooler. Liberty Hall was where I saw Urge Overkill, the Mighty Mighty Bosstones, Nirvana, Bela Fleck and the Flecktones, and a number of others I'm forgetting. One of the great things about Liberty, however, was that all concerts are GA and despite its size; the venue is also relatively intimate. Consequently, there is much clamoring before the doors open to get in prime position to snag a spot at the stage, mere inches away from the performers. I recall participating in this mad dash many times. So when it came time to go to the "Of Montreal" show, I followed protocol: we better get there way early so we can get a top spot.
But it was cold that night. I had a blazer, but still, not enough for warmth. Madeline was game to wait in line, but I could see that she was uncomfortable. So I said, screw it. We'll still be on the floor, and that will be fun enough. So we went and got a cup of coffee, and hung around in Liberty Hall's video rental outlet until the line started moving. We were a ways back. That's when it hit me: am I too old for this? Walking to the back of the line was like walking to the back of the line for a "just got my driver's license" convention. 16-year-olds abound. Am I too old? After all, I did decide to not wait in line for the sake of being a little warmer. Do I have to give up my rock-show cred?
It got worse. Liberty Hall is set up like this. When you finally get in the door you have a choice: enter the main hall on the floor, or go up the stairs to the balcony, which has seats. Looking at these two options, it immediately hit me that if I went down to the floor, I'd be standing for, like, three hours at least. It would be really loud, way louder than if I sat down on the balcony. Furthermore, memories of what being on the floor used to be like flashed into my brain: half-drunk idiots spinning around, banging into you. Tall jerks standing right in front of you rather than standing in a place that is more appropriate given their height. Stupid little boys "accidentally" groping the females in your party. Finally, it hit me: better go upstairs. Better simply admit defeat, brother: you are too old for this. This is a kid's game and you, at best, are a stone's throw from middle-age.
Waiting for the show I was disappointed in myself. I could see the kids down on the floor anxiously awaiting the band. I could see them hanging on every roadie's bump of the curtain, waiting for a clue that the band was just a few feet away. I was jealous. Here I was on the balcony. Pain free, of course, but somehow removed. There were some people around me, of course, but I felt like we were, I dunno, like the aristocrats sitting in their special seats, comfortable, perhaps, but not really engaged. At more than one point, I thought to myself: why did I even buy these tickets if I'm not really going to see the show?
But then the show started. It was powerful, moving. Lots of dance tunes and disco numbers. And that's when I noticed something very interesting. Looking down at the floor I expected to see the usual pushing and shoving, get-out-of-my-way angry mentality that usually characterized rock shows. But no: people were simply dancing. They were mimicking the words, jumping up and down, but in a way that was collectively joyful, rather than aggressive. And right then I had a realization: I am older. And I am too old for the floor. But that's ok. My generation of rock-show attendees had a heirarchical order built-in: if you weren't on the floor, you weren't shit. You didn't really care. But this group seemed simply content to enjoy the music and dance. And suddenly I felt glad I came. I could enjoy the music and be a part of the audience. It was as if the kids on the floor were welcoming me: we know you're older. We know you're in the balcony. But it's all good. Let's all enjoy this. Let's dance together.
And all of a sudden, like, my whole life was put into a grand relief: here I am living in Lawrence, the site of my youth, but in a way that is different. In a way that is more fully a realization of who I am now. This town, like these kids, are welcoming at any age. There is now so much new to discover. Looking at these kids, I felt like the Grinch seeing Whoville singing even after all the presents were stolen.
And then it all came crashing down.
The final song "Of Montreal" played was a curious choice: "Smells Like Teen Spirit." And no sooner had they hit the big four-chord riff, were kids slamming into each other, pushing and shoving, getting into fights, looking generally angry and pissed-off. One of the dance performers, a female, jumped off the stage to crowd-surf. By the time she got back on stage, her silver wig had been ripped off, and torn, and she mouthed: "You fucking assholes!" and gave them all a collective double-fisted single-fingered "fuck you!" salute. By the time I made it out of Liberty Hall, I noticed more than one kid with a bloody nose.
Ah, you can go home again.
posted by dd0031 at 1:22 PM
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