Ah, my first post from my brand new MacBook! It looks and feels exactly the same as my previous machine, albeit with twice the storage and twice the memory. A weird part of me wishes the jump in unfamilarity was bigger, but I’m more than satisfied that I’ll be experiencing much less of the dreaded rainbow swirl of death in the future.
The summer is coming to a close, but with a bang instead of a whimper. The weather is finally cooling down in my neck of the woods, but all of last week was scorching beyond belief. I spent the weekend in DC a good two hours closer to the equator than I usually am, so I really got to feel it.
The (first) main attraction: Jawbox, round II, at the Black Cat. It was an extremely fun time—so fun, in fact, that I didn’t take that many photos because I was just too into it! They opened with my favorite song of theirs—“FF=66”—and ended with their cover of a Tori Amos song that I’d actually been hoping they would play the first time I saw them. It’s just really entertaining hearing the badass angsty dude that is J. Robbins declaring he “never was a cornflake girrrrrl!” And it just rocks in general when they do it. Scientifically proven, I would assume. It was great.
We visited the Smithsonian the next day, braving the oppressive heat to do so. I wish the Air and Space Museum had been open—it’s undergoing renovations. But the Museum of American History did not disappoint. Every part we walked through was immersive and gorgeously, intelligently curated. The place really speaks for itself.
Take the sprawling tree of presidential campaign ads, arranged in chronological order and swerving over the clusters of museumgoers. Immaculate.
There’s a temporary exhibit going on there right now entitled Girlhood, which explores the evolution of the titular age frame in America. It was interesting, but I guess being on the edge of proper adulthood made it the slightest bit uncanny to me. I also cannot get over how much it bugged me having to hear “Rebel Girl” by Bikini Kill twice as I milled about the exhibition space. Do I understand the song’s historical significance? Yes. Are there more “underground” female musicians that matter from back then than solely Kathleen Hanna? Yes! (Ugh, I’m such a nerd.) Later I even saw Le Tigre tickets (ironically from the venue we’d just been at the previous night) on display in another part of the museum alongside some old zines as an example of WOMEN being DEFIANT with MUSIC in the NINETIES. At least they had some Sleater-Kinney stubs there, too.
I guess I’m just frustrated with modern day hero worship. Cults of personality are fascinating to me. And strangely enough nowadays it seems more and more people are obsessed with being the master of their own niche domains as opposed to seeking widespread acclaim. Forget being the next Kim Kardashian—feeling like you’re the next Kathleen Hanna alongside similarly dressed peers with similar music taste is more relatable (and attainable). Doing the exact same things her circle did, especially in a time where her previously scorned actions are gaining more acceptance, is more comfortable than trying something new, something more culturally dangerous. What’s ironic is that the idols that we’ve collectively built out of these countercultural gamechangers would rather their worshippers try to pave some new ground instead of retreading what has now become safety net cliche.
Didn’t you know that being a cookie cutter punk is more rebellious and meaningful than ever when Machine Gun Kelly is allowed to strut around with pink hair on his head and dumb Sid ‘n’ Nancy fantasies in his brain? What perfect role models for a generation of increasingly volatile youth struggling with mental illness and 21st century stress. And when being a starving artist is in (no “sellouts” here), doesn’t that mean affording self care and security is the peak of uncool?
As the world continues to implode, self stagnation has never been so hip. I wonder how Kurt Cobain would feel.
Know your history. Avoid trends. Hop on them. Stop caring what others think of you. Get famous. Fight the power.
Fun Times With Some Rowdy Guys
Tuesday, July 5th, 2022My first log as a legal adult. Who would’ve thought! Yeah, I’m pretty hardcore. It’s definitely an interesting time to be going through so many rites of passage, from graduating to reaching adulthood last Sunday. It’s also pretty interesting how all these rites of passage seem to coincide with similarly wonderful concerts. I got an incredible DEVO show as a graduation party, which I’m still not quite over. This time around, it was the Melvins who brought me into adulthood on Friday, two days before my gestation completion anniversary. I wanted special for my birthday, dammit, and I ended up getting much, much more than I could have ever asked for. At the very least, I can check off my list seeing the mighty King Buzzo’s hair in person.
The concert also coincided with my first time to what was once a steel capital of the world, good ol’ Bethlehem, PA. Sounds quaint, doesn’t it? The town surrounding the venue and extending across the river itself is nice and quaint. The venue is located right by the old Bethlehem Steel plant, which was operational until, somehow, the mid-nineties. It now looms over a bustling little cultural spot, towering as a series of antiquated pagodas of rust and dead industry. (The morning after the Melvins my family checked out the self guided walking tour along the plant’s old material transport trestle, which allows for some incredible up-close action. It’s truly an incredible and fascinating sight to experience.) The venue itself also houses a movie theater and boasts an orange spiral staircase adorned with intricate blown glass art where we waited to get our tickets checked. Within the ballroom, concertgoers could’ve gotten a table at the also orange balcony looking out on the crowd and stage. The steel plant loomed behind the stage through the large glass windows and would later be illuminated in neon light when the sun set. All in all, it was very atmospheric.
I was initially positioned directly stage right, up against the security gate as I’ve gotten used to at shows that feature them, for openers Harsh Mellow (excellent name). I was impressed at their energetic, intense brand of noise rock, and I’m really excited to see what they do in the future. I had drifted back slightly and more towards the front of the stage to talk with some of my dad’s friends by the time the second band, Helms Alee, took the stage and proceeded to turn everyone’s minds to sluuudge. I actually wouldn’t be surprised if their set went on for longer than the Melvins’. I had a good view of their drummer, who was a total powerhouse in her own right and also very sweet at the merch booth before and after the show. Fun times.
And then, promptly as the headliners took the stage, I was shoved—or maybe something in my consciousness pulled me a little bit—right up against the gate, just slightly off-center from Buzz Osbourne’s microphone stand. What followed was something akin to my mind being blown—or maybe it’s more like my mind being unfolded and refolded, like origami. The more I think about it, the more I’m sure the triple threat of “Oven”, “Lovely Butterflies”, and “It’s Shoved” that opened the show flipped some sort of weird, hidden, primal switch in my brain. I feel like a reformed young woman now after having seen the Melvins. As a result of the weekend’s sonic therapy, I feel respectable and healthy urges to put myself out there more, engage myself more creatively, and try different styling techniques that would increase the volume of my hair. Well, maybe the latter is just the aftershock of getting to see Buzz’s incredible hairdo in person. I am being completely serious when I say that no photograph or video can truly replicate how absolutely incredible it is to see with one’s own eyes.
But I digress.
To put it simply, the band was relentless. Songs launched into each other with the beat of Dale Crover’s pounding, primal drums with barely any time to spare, blending the night’s sequence of events together like a syrupy sweet molotov cocktail. Yet sonic blasts of pent up punk rock fury still played ping pong with sublime, smirking moments of teasing quiet throughout the night—thanks, complex and diverse song structures. “Bob” bless their current bass player, Steve McDonald, who wore what I initially thought was an ironically awful white disco suit before realizing it was some sort of fancy kung-fu jacket accented with gold, elevated from it’s previous Halloween costume status. He was clearly having the time of his life up there, hopping around, crouching, and striking many an audacious pose throughout the night. And then there was Buzz, the one perhaps most appropriately dressed up for Halloween in July in his iconic skeleton robes. I can safely say I’ve never been more intimidated by a man than I was there in my spot in front of the vicious King Buzzo himself, and that’s a good thing. I was even too intimidated to take photos when he got probably as close to my part of the audience as he could’ve gotten as he hammered on his transparent-body guitar. I was that in awe. He and Steve thrashed surprisingly precisely around the place, making good use of the stage’s expansive floor area due to Dale’s drum kit being placed so far back. Dale emerged from behind his instrument of choice at one point to use one of his sticks as a sword in a brief fencing match against the neck of Steve’s bass, which was extremely entertaining. The same goes for Buzz’s liberal use of hand gestures during breaks in songs where he didn’t play guitar, which I will always find very, very amusing no matter who is doing it (and no matter whether or not their hands should actually be strumming those strings at that place in the song). Yes. I dare say the whole band took it to twelve.
I got more used to my surroundings as the night went on. I was marked safe from the inevitable pit the entire time, though I briefly considered joining it before remembering how lucky I was to have acquired the best view of Buzz in the house. Besides which, it was really funny glancing over periodically at the antsy, stingy looking security guy at the front of the stage, who was jerking back and forth as he watched the pit with much concern. It was pretty great to glance back at, too—imagine “Honey Bucket” tearing up such a clean, modern, composed establishment! At the beginning of the show there was some sort of country band playing on one of the complex’s outdoor stages, visible through the glass wall from my initial standing position. I wonder how those guys would’ve reacted to what went on inside. In terms of my reaction, I was mesmerized, pulverized, and totally hooked even after the band left the stage. They could’ve gone on another hour and I still would’ve been wanting more.
But hey, the band is pretty well known for their tour grind, so it’ll presumably be easy to see them again down the road. I slept contently that night knowing that.
Two days later I turned eighteen. If it were 1970 I’d be old enough to kill, but not for votin’. I’ll probably be woman enough to not be able to kill or vote at all soon if this country keeps going the way it is. 246 years this week, huh? I see so many people nowadays wondering how many years it’s got left with the way things are.
Based on their hypotheses, it’s probably less than the Melvins still have in them.
(I posted some more photos here, by the way.)
Tags:Bethlehem PA, birthdays, concerts, Harsh Mellow, Helms Alee, Melvins, music, Musikfest Cafe, new experiences, photos, things I enjoy
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