01 January 2014

Damn, son... old crank complains about kids today at shows— ƱZ at Rumor 12/26/13

Originally drafted December 27, 2013 at 3:02am

So, I went to go see
︻╦╤─ ƱZ ─╤╦︻,
who is a hardcore trap act— he plays with a mask and no one knows who he is— and the show was so f'd up, or I'm getting real old. The music was incredible, crunchy and glitchy sub-sonic hard beats. I only drank three 8 oz Red Bulls, and with the booming sound and lights and visuals and the writhing post-teens, a few times I wondered if I got slipped something, because I felt transported to some ethereal bacchanal purgatory. It was hot, but I don't get out much.

This effect began when the security guy at the door made me raise my arms Christ-like, and he actually waited for the bass-drop from the club's interior music to do the weirdest, furious frisk I've ever gotten. As I went through the gauntlet to get in a few people complimented me on my Dustrial t-shirt and Мишка gear— considering the fact that I knew I looked like an old n00b, I took it as sarcasm and felt self-conscious.

Otherwise the crowd was a huge case of class transvestism where all these young super skinny girls dressed as trashy as possible like second-string strippers. The guys were all uniform and seemed under-grown in stunted puerile sub-maleness. When the dudes danced with each other, they did this gang$ing$-vogue thing, busting moves from bad promo photos of hip-hop acts from the '90s to a 4:4 beat. When they danced with the girls it was in a hyperbolic pantomime of being presented with presents on Christmas morning, and then they fell into a lackluster parody of the girls' failed grind and wiggle. Roaming photographers only added to the rippling spasms which were rewarded with dude's business card.

One girl had a Santa-like bathrobe clutched tightly around her. She jumped on a table, whipping it open revealing ample jiggle and shake, popping out of a "dress" that was like a tight fitting cannoli shell of some man-made plastic that was more midsection-covering than anything. Since there was no show-stopping reaction, she covered herself back up and scuttled off pouting. Another butch punk girl roughly pegged her girlfriend right in front of me.

I stayed in the same place, leaning against a pillar the whole show and a few girls playfully bumped me asking me why I wouldn't dance. Rather than shout over the noise, that as an old Boston punk I was accustomed to standing fixed in place and listening, and maybe bobbing my head in approval, as we all did back in the day, I said, "I'm just here for the music-- what are you here for?"

The highlight of the night was getting my coat back from the less than diligent coat check girl. The layout of the club had a stairway that the drunk, rolling kids stumbled down into a space smaller than my bedroom with three choices that were difficult to make for most who arrived there, two separate bathrooms, and the coat check. The girl was there with a less than patient security dude. As the crowd piled in, drunk kids, eyes wide with vanished pupils crushed and surged like oversexed zombies. I really wasn't sure what the criteria was for being charged with groping, but I definitely felt cheapened by a few uncomfortable moments of unwelcomed frottage.

At one point some girl yelled something unintelligible and punched a guy in the head several times. This caused the security guard to leave, and service slowed while the crowd began to shout "USA, USA, etc." if it was foreigners holding up the line, or barking "Coatcheck?" to which several returned the query in good comedic timing. I glared at the few who tried to cut in front of me and they yielded the way. I handed my ticket with a dollar bill to the security guy who had returned, got my coat quickly, and I turned to fight the crowd upstream. They actually parted, yelling, "Let him through!" One chimed in, "He's a handsome young man!" To which I replied, "It's my birthday." Since it was after midnight, I was 45.