After the Party: Sweaty Hugs, Coffee Mugs, and Temporary Kinda-Semi-Normalcy

A quick Google tells me that 630 days ago was the last time I stood in a crowd of humans and listened to another human play music. If you’re curious, it was Jason Isbell & the 400 Unit at the Georgia Theater, and more than anything, I vividly remember scribbling down not only a setlist (which is par for the course for me), but a setlist with accompanying guitar selections so that I could discuss guitar gear with a co-worker when I returned to work, just because I craved that interaction (because I can’t talk about guitars with anyone else.) I had a blast, and was thankful that I could see a great show in Athens, as a terrible car accident and a moment of completely blacking out while driving on I-285 has caused me to avoid Atlanta like the plague (lol nvm that phrase doesn’t work here in Georgia) for the past several years. But that was it. I didn’t have an inkling it would be the last gathering like that for a long, long time, and so when I returned home that evening, I tucked the memories away casually.

Yesterday, I made the long, bumper-to-bumper trek to Atlanta (avoiding the interstate altogether) to see a show at the Tabernacle. Philadelphia’s The Menzingers were opening for one of my favorite bands, punk legends Descendents, who were in turn rounding out a bill with the headliners, Rise Against, a band I kind of have no opinion of whatsoever, but do remember listening to in the early aughts. One time in high school, I saw them play Warped Tour and they and another band were kind enough to sign a program for the girl I was at the time trying to date (How’s this for a happy ending: we got married! Hey, thanks, Rise Against and Yellowcard!) and they all seem nice enough, so I was totally down to see their show. Kel is still a casual fan of their music, so it worked out perfectly. Also, at this point in our pandemic, I would literally pay however much to see whomever play music. I’d see a nü-metal band. I’d see a hick-hop duo. I’d see anyone except probably, like, Radiohead — that would be where I draw the line.

I booked tickets in the balcony due to COVID-19 concerns. The Tabernacle mandated masks, but I wasn’t sure how strictly it would be enforced, so I decided to remove myself from the crowd of folks and get a seat (one of the first concerts short of Bob Dylan in which a seat would be preferable to General Admission.) When I got there and scoped everything out, the mask use and enforcement was hit or miss: better than I imagined, not as good as I had hoped. People were sitting in my immediate vicinity, but for the most part, I felt okay (or at least justified in very happily taking a risk). Also, having reserved seating meant that we could stroll in ten minutes before the house lights were slated to dim and we would be okay. (The Tabernacle insisted on everyone doing mobile tickets, so at one point I logged in to the Ticketmaster website to pull up the tickets and the connection timed out, so I got frustrated and pounded my thumb against the phone, which in turn recognized me as a bot and locked me out of my account and I said “Oh, no. Oh, no” but mostly kept my cool. I hope you’re proud, Kel.)

I really enjoy the music of The Menzingers. I struggle from time to time, however, to embrace the total earnestness with which they compose their songs, but at the same time, I’m 100% here for it. When I listen to a Bruce Springsteen song and he’s going off about Jersey or waitresses in diners or barefoot girls sitting on the hood of a Dodge, drinking warm beer in the soft summer rain, my first instinct is to go, “All of this sounds cool, but, like…are you for real, Bruce Springsteen? You can’t be that (as the kids say) “extra,” can you?” But he is. He pulls it off because he goes full-throttle Springsteen. The Menzingers are sort of the same, but instead of being really into writing songs about girls named Maria, they provide anthems for heart-on-their-sleeve millenials with mental illness and poor coping mechanisms who are walking a thin line between trying to accomplish something great in their last few youthful years and acknowledging that the ship has probably already sailed. I roll my eyes at a lot of lyrics, but at the same time, where’s the lie?

I had a couple of moments where I got a little teary-eyed, the first of which happened in the very first song, “America (You’re Freaking Me Out)” — the chill bumps the came when the bass, second guitar, and drums kicked in. It was a total adrenaline rush in which I could practically feel the air coming from the amplifier cabinet. It was a B-chord, I think, because I also usually tune my guitars down a half-step. The song itself addresses a personal dilemma, but also acknowledges the elephant in the room that got us to this point: “How do I steer my early thirties / before I shipwreck? / before I’m 40? / Ain’t it a shame what we choose to ignore? / What kind of monsters did our parents vote for?” The mostly-happy waterworks continued through the shredded screams of vocalist Greg Barnett in the song “Good Things”: “I’ve been having a horrible time / pulling myself together.” Ain’t that the truth? But the highlight had to be the closer, “After the Party,” which finishes with a diminuendo following the repeated chorus: “After the party / it’s me and you.” As the volume got softer, I looked over at Kel and had a moment where I felt that this was probably (and let’s be real: definitely) a fleeting moment before we all head back into an absolutely painful isolation (I mean, I know that I live in a state where our policymakers won’t mandate the appropriate measure no matter how many people die, because they simply do not care — but on a personal level, I am going to try to do right by folks.) I am so tremendously thankful for the geographies that I am allowed to create in my own household with my wife and the life I am allowed to call “mine”, but also, at the time, I felt like I was grabbing sand with my open hand and I didn’t want it to stop.

I had never thought I would see the Descendents play live, and I have now been lucky to see them three times, though when they got on stage, I was not in the headspace to have the time of my life again. The first two times were a collective experience with strangers who all of a sudden were no longer strangers anymore, every deep cut appearance a surprise that resulted in sweaty hugs from people I did not know, my voice a husky, gravely Tom Waits facsimile by the end of the night. This time, I remained in my seat and while the band was fantastic, showing no signs of being a band that had been around for over forty years, I felt no triumph. I was thankful one of my favorite groups had made it through to the other side of whatever fresh hell this is, but I was anxious that I was witnessing the end of a new beginning. That hesitance was the primary reason for throwing caution to the wind in the first place; getting while the gettin’s good, so to speak. They played a tight 45 minutes or so, approximately 20 songs, some of which of course lasted less than a minute. I had a brief moment of optimism within when they broke into “Nothing With You,” a song from their 2004 “comeback” album Cool to Be You and a personal song about literally just wanting to sit on the couch and watch TV with your beloved. The song perfectly exemplifies the great that exists within the mundate. Beyond that, many of the “hits” (using that term loosely) were covered, though I was incredibly bummed to not have “Myage” (the best Descendents song) or “Good Good Things” (the best Descendents song) or “Get the Time” (one of the best pop songs ever) or “Silly Girl” (the best Descendents song) or “I’m Not a Punk” (the best Descendents song) okay I’ll stop complaining. I know they were the openers and had a new-old album to sell, and they only played three of those anyway. Also, their new-old album 9th and Walnut (newer-ish recordings of songs from forty years ago) is good and you should buy it.

We went downstairs to the merch booth in between sets, but out of the entire night, the merch section gave me the most pause in terms of COVID, with people cramming together through weaving lines to glare at the $30+ t-shirts. I decided to keep my distance from that and instead stood by a pillar in the food/bar area and waited for Kel to use the restroom. While she was gone, No Use for a Name’s “International You Day” came on the overhead speaker and probably a couple dozen people (not everyone, but a substantial number) broke out into song, which was another punch in the gut, as this song was one that was actually played at my wedding reception. Hearing a bunch of people, after everything, sing the late Tony Sly’s over-the-top saccharine-sweet lovey-dovey song did the trick, and while it is a popular(ish) song in the whole skatepunk genre, like, seriously, what are the odds? That song was followed up by the Replacements’ “Bastards of Young,” which once again put me deeper “in my feelings” at the same part as always. Paul Westerberg’s voice breaking in the final verse: “The ones that love us best are the one’s we’ll lay to rest / and visit their graves on holidays at best. / The ones who love us least are the ones we’ll die to please. / If it’s any consolation, I don’t begin to understand them.” I know the song is older than I am, but it struck a nerve and felt particularly salient and hopeless in this period of immense loss, callous indifference, and ideological divide. I am glad I was sweating profusely, so that I could blame my red eyes on that instead of the fact that I was “having a moment” that probably wouldn’t make sense to anyone to whom I explained it.

So, I do not have much to say about Rise Against beyond that they put on a terrific show and the vocalist, Tim McIlrath, knows how to work a crowd. They played a relatively well-balanced setlist, and I knew about half of the songs, despite not including any of the songs from their first two albums, the two with which I would be the most familiar (The Unraveling and Revolutions per Minute). We decided to go down to the floor level, since it appeared that both mask usage and social distancing was more or less the same (not great, but okay) and in terms of security, it did not appear that anyone seemed to care one way or the other. We decided that we would stand towards the back, which offered us a better view than our bottom-row balcony seats that included a thin metal cylindrical column in the middle of our line of vision. Thanks for the heads-up, Ticketmaster. I preferred being down on the ground (as I would not have purchased “seats” if not for COVID) but the crowd also made it worthwhile, as it was as engaged-yet-civil as any crowd I’d seen. The band didn’t matter: the fists in the air, the sway of the crowd, the call-and-response was what I had missed. Those kind of moments are — and I am not even exaggerating by using this word — a religious experience.

Following a couple of acoustic songs, the band returned for an encore (ugh, why couldn’t that have stopped existing with COVID like buffets and handshakes?) and played a couple of songs from the last Rise Against album I purchased, The Sufferer and the Witness: “Survive” and “Ready to Strike.” As they kicked into their finale, “Savior” (I think that is their biggest hit, yes?), I was struck from behind by perhaps one of the drunkest people I had ever seen. He wrapped his arm around me and pointed towards the ground, slurring his words; I cringed, as believe it or not, this does not constitute social distancing, but when I looked at him, I noticed that he was crying.

“I can’t see!” he sobbed, pointing to the ground. I had no clue what he was talking about, he was saturated with sweat, and his breath smelled like vomit. I don’t know if you know me very well, but if you do, you know how I respond to being touched. There are times when Kel, my wife and dearest companion for the past half of my life holy smokes, comes from behind and touches me and I jump. Occasionally, my students try to hug me and I lose every bone in the process of my body trying to dodge them. But this guy was bigger than me and I wasn’t going anywhere, though he did have a friend try to usher him away.

I looked down at the ground and by some miracle or stroke of luck (because I am way past due for an eye doctor appointment and can’t see great), saw something in between the feet of people a few feet in front of me. I ducked down to the ground, and lo and behold, it was a pair of eyeglasses. I pointed at them in my hand to see if that what he was talking about, and the man started crying further. He told me “Thank you so much!” and left only to come back five minutes later. He then gave me a $10 bill, which I immediately gave to his chaperone friend, which the man then grabbed and gave to me again, which I immediately gave to his chaperone friend, which he then grabbed and gave to me again. I did not get the chance to give the money to the chaperone friend again, because sweaty drunk guy hugged me. I immediately thought about COVID and germs and superspreader events, but I am also socially awkward, so I froze.

“Take it! Please! You helped me! That’s what we all gotta do. We all gotta help each other.”

The story sounds super corny, but it actually happened last night. Weird. I suppose that being really, really drunk like that guy was doesn’t mean that you can’t also still be wise.

I hope this isn’t the last time I see live music. Losing it was akin to losing a part of myself, a part that often seemed like a meter used to measure how alive one felt. If you asked me on my deathbed about the times I felt most alive, most answers would be music-related. Rancid 2002, Bad Religion 2003, whatever year Carrie Nations did that reunion show at Little Kings (2007?) and I got hit in the back of the head by a beer bottle that someone threw up in the air during the drum breakdown in the song “Girlfriend.” Colostomy Bag’s sort of lo-fi hardcore in a basement on Pulaski all the way to the umpteen times I’ve seen Against Me! (including the times I went to a show by myself because my friends had plans and even though I felt weird doing that, but still had the time of my life because people I had never met before and will never see again decided to extend a little love my way for 90 minutes just because…)

Because that’s what you do. Like my sweaty, crying, hugging drunk guy said, we all gotta help each other. I hope we can continue figuring out what exactly that looks like.

Thanks, Menzingers.
Thanks, Descendents.
Thanks, Rise Against.
Thanks, Tabernacle Atlanta.
Thanks, Sweaty Crying Hugging Drunk Guy.
Thanks, Kel: I love you.
Thanks, Guy Who Asked Me For Money on Luckie Street But I Didn’t Have any Cash So I Was Like “Is There a Chick-Fil-A Nearby?” Because I Had Won a Gift Card at Work Last Year and Don’t Really Go to Chick-Fil-A That Often Because Homophobia So I Gave Him That $10 Gift Card.
Thanks, Silas.
Thanks, Crouton.

If I don’t see live music again, I am still so thankful.

Help each other.