I was drawn back into stories of Peter Cotton tail on our way to the show, “through the yard, across the muddy parking lot, along the chain link fence to where the hole is.” Rather specific and shockingly accurate directions got us to the industrial space turned squat where Jesse made his home. Clusters of pin cushioned metal enthusiasts lined the stretch of fence leading to the entrance, providing a preview of the scrutiny we were to encounter for the rest of the night. “I should have worn more black...and leather” whispered my date, nailing my sentiments squarely on the head, “and tattoos” I added. We joked about how we could find a pair of scissors somewhere and lop off a couple of tufts of hair from our heads if we felt the need to fit in. Indeed we began to focus our anthropological lenses around the comically cramped space, noting, cataloguing and sharing the more insightful of our observations during lulls in the music/feedback.
It was only when Prevenge, the third group on the bill, began setting up that we were able to hopscotch our way into the back of the space and establish a good view. I began to notice the crowd reacting to me in a uncomfortable and unfamiliar manner. Ordinarily I have a knack for blending into the background, not reclusively, but the term “confidently unremarkable” does seem to sum up large swathes of my party going experiences. This was different, there was some attention being sent my way. I couldn't quite put my finger on it but there it was-like an unclaimed bag on an airport carousel; skirting from pair of eyes to pair of eyes, a look of uncertainty and distrust.
The lead singer began singing and I was lost in his voice, which sounded something like a cross between an industrial drill and a blow dryer. I spent the better part of the first song attempting to decipher the words of Prevenge's lyrics. I ultimately decided that they were either about hating ones lot in life or were a recipe for chocolate raspberry cake. Given that 99.9% of the were white males, I couldn't bring myself to believe that they would have much to complain about so passionately; so I asked the next logical question of myself, jam or fresh raspberries?
Mid way through the third song/recipe at the lyric (“you can never escape me/chill and serve with tea”) I noticed more looks and recognized them. I tugged on my date's sleeve, “Holy fuck! They think I'm a narc!” She turned, looked me top to bottom, giggled and replied “they totally do!” Here's what she saw: an unpierced short guy in his late twenties wearing a relatively new pair of New Balance 578s, brown work pants, a soft hemp hoodie and what looked to be a tuque from the Gap (it was). Then there's the mustache, at the time of this event I was sporting what I affectionately referred to as “a rather tremendous mustache”. The fact that the stache was an attempt to raise money for charity would be lost on this crowd, I might as well have entered the place, badge in hand and pepper spray at the ready. There are few things that drive home the fact that you are getting older than being identified as a narc at a party. In fact I'm not sure there are any other social phenomena which can parallel the avalanche of self doubt and insecurity that it triggered. I can confidently state that in spite of those feelings, a level of calm washed over me just in time to save the night. I took stock of myself and quickly realized there was absolutely nothing I could do to prove I was in fact, not a narc and settled back into the driving rhythms and screeching serenity of what seemed to be the most enthusiastic recipe for Key Lime Pie in modern history.
It was only when Prevenge, the third group on the bill, began setting up that we were able to hopscotch our way into the back of the space and establish a good view. I began to notice the crowd reacting to me in a uncomfortable and unfamiliar manner. Ordinarily I have a knack for blending into the background, not reclusively, but the term “confidently unremarkable” does seem to sum up large swathes of my party going experiences. This was different, there was some attention being sent my way. I couldn't quite put my finger on it but there it was-like an unclaimed bag on an airport carousel; skirting from pair of eyes to pair of eyes, a look of uncertainty and distrust.
The lead singer began singing and I was lost in his voice, which sounded something like a cross between an industrial drill and a blow dryer. I spent the better part of the first song attempting to decipher the words of Prevenge's lyrics. I ultimately decided that they were either about hating ones lot in life or were a recipe for chocolate raspberry cake. Given that 99.9% of the were white males, I couldn't bring myself to believe that they would have much to complain about so passionately; so I asked the next logical question of myself, jam or fresh raspberries?
Mid way through the third song/recipe at the lyric (“you can never escape me/chill and serve with tea”) I noticed more looks and recognized them. I tugged on my date's sleeve, “Holy fuck! They think I'm a narc!” She turned, looked me top to bottom, giggled and replied “they totally do!” Here's what she saw: an unpierced short guy in his late twenties wearing a relatively new pair of New Balance 578s, brown work pants, a soft hemp hoodie and what looked to be a tuque from the Gap (it was). Then there's the mustache, at the time of this event I was sporting what I affectionately referred to as “a rather tremendous mustache”. The fact that the stache was an attempt to raise money for charity would be lost on this crowd, I might as well have entered the place, badge in hand and pepper spray at the ready. There are few things that drive home the fact that you are getting older than being identified as a narc at a party. In fact I'm not sure there are any other social phenomena which can parallel the avalanche of self doubt and insecurity that it triggered. I can confidently state that in spite of those feelings, a level of calm washed over me just in time to save the night. I took stock of myself and quickly realized there was absolutely nothing I could do to prove I was in fact, not a narc and settled back into the driving rhythms and screeching serenity of what seemed to be the most enthusiastic recipe for Key Lime Pie in modern history.
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