10 April 2014

An Evening With the Bluebird

Let me tell you a story of an amazing night. I got in the car, tickets in hand, ready for an incredible show and night that would soon surpass my expectations. The Coathangers were opening for the Black Lips at my favorite venue in Denver, the Bluebird. It was going to be an epic night of punk, beer, and fellowship.

The fellowship began at the PS Lounge for the pregame beers. I walk in only to find Tore getting a head start on the evening with a PBR and a shot already cemented in his belly. I sit my jittery bones next to his and order a PBR over conversations of expectations and excitement. It came with a complimentary shot and smile from the beautiful bartender. The jukebox was earning it’s keep playing crowd favorites from the Clash, Stones, Cash, Sinatra, Martin, and Redding. We speak only of how excellent the music line up is tonight, and how rare it is to genuinely be excited for both bands on the ticket. After our voices turn rasp as we shout over the crowd - receiving momentary relief only from PBRs sipped upon, coating our throats in sweet froth. After we consume and settle the tab, we commence wandering towards the show with smoke on our breath.

We find our spots, and notice a big opening in front of us. Always the opportunists we strike out to seize our birthright closer to the stage. As we stand 6 feet from the stage our eyes drink in our surrounding peers only to recognize that we are the only ones in the front over 21. I joke and remark on how I just remembered we are at a 16+ show, making us feel older than our spirits as we count the pimples, zits, and B.O. surrounding us. We have made our beds and as the Coathangers walk on stage, we lie in them.

The music spews forth and chaos ensues as the volume breaches my eardrums to the pattern of “Johnny”. Tore turns to me and says, “ok, now I wanna start a girl band.” I laugh, pat him on the back in a manly fashion before getting back into my rhythm showing the best dance moves Denver has seen. I’ll be famous. I’m sure of it. As I dance, sway, and bob soon a tap finds my moving shoulder. I turn to see Tore with a giant smile and two PBRs. I raise my can in appreciation and get back to cutting the nonexistent rug. I only stop between songs, when the music itself needs a breather, to see their signature move of switching instruments during the set. These ladies of freedom play every instrument in the band, and sing lead on at least a couple songs. True performers. True artists. Their set ends all too soon, but not before I raise my can to the band only to see a can raised right back at me. We are all here just to have fun; we are all here to not give a damn. Hallelujah. As we exit to pollute our bodies once more, I have a grin beaming bright into the night. I do believe I caused the helicopter to greet us as it landed next to the venue with my spotlight smile. All in good fun though. I express that I can’t see them play without having a crush on one of them. Tore chuckles and says, “don’t you mean all of them?” Touche good sir.

We get back to it after a moment of revelry only to find a different yet equally amusing spot. Before the music starts two goons are messing with every girl that walks past them. One touches the bottom of his beer can to the top of their head, while the other gives their hair a stroke and rating their hair for them as if he were some sort of expert on fine hair. I suppose we are all experts on something - even if it’s wasting time. I “bump” into them and make eye contact, which apparently is all that is needed to distract them from ever doing it again. Soon the Black Lips take the stage and pour out their craft delivering “Family Tree” and “Modern Art” back to back as their opener. Despite all the regal tales of raunch that accompany the Lips on stage, they were southern gentlemen that night. Their sound was tight and true. I’ve been to a lot of shows of a lot of different artists, but I’ve never seen crowd surfing like this with the exception of the Chariot farewell tour. The crowd was electric and responsive not unlike the guitars found on stage. The stage was buried in beer cans, so it came to no surprise when the next round we got was served in plastic cups. The only smiles and direction to be found was from the ‘Lips themselves. Their smiles burned brighter as their direction became greater than the frowning security - that couldn’t catch a girl as she ran around on stage. The greatest show on earth wasn’t found in a tent, but in a packed theater on a dirty street in the heart of Denver. This wasn’t just another show, but a gathering of boys and girls, men and women, daughters, sons, and orphans here to be free of whatever constraints that have been cast upon them. It was a communal leave from reality. I only found myself taking reprieve to buy more beer and see if the Coathangers were at their merch table. My wayward calculations convinced me they were deserving a round on me after the escapade of awesome they dropped on a mostly unexpecting crowd.

As with all great nights of music it’s over before it begins. I run to the john, and as I exit I find Tore deep in conversation with one of the ‘Hangers. Of what they were talking about I don’t know, what I do know is that when eye contact was made I was instantly a sixteen year old girl at a Beatles concert. All hope had left for normal conversation. This was exactly like the first time I tried to interact with a band I dug and got as awkward as the sum of my teen years, the only difference being this time I had talked to many bands prior (including them the first time I saw them) and was a cool 30. I still don’t know what happened but whatever it was, it took hold and I was useless.

Before I knew it I was back at the PS Lounge sitting at the open bar only to be greeted with a familiar smile and a PBR in front of me before I said a thing. As you do, my conversation was mixed between my companion, the bartender and a drunk man looking to strangers for friends as his girlfriend had had enough of him. We talked almost exclusively about the philosophy of accepting farts from strangers before I passed him cleverly to Tore, smiling as both of us knew of the maneuver I just pulled. My attention was passed to the bartender for conversation, hoping to be accepted as a worthy distraction; thankfully I passed. My attention shifts for the rest of the evening between conversations and the giant, fluffy snowflakes falling outside behind the jukebox crying Etta James, Miles Davis, Thelonious Monk, and Carl Perkins. In the midst of this somewhere is a slice of Heaven.

Soon the bar cleared, and we left only to find a fight outside on the sidewalk of fartman vs a gentleman surely fighting for his honor or different opinion on flatulence. I wasn’t about to break up this perfect moment, after all this was a night of entertainment. Instead like a ring commentator I gave a play by play as I cheered for fartman to give the other gentleman a wedgie mid-fight. Apparently the gentleman thought this was a good idea and took my advice only to give my strange friend the wedgie of his life while swinging away with his good hand. Soon the fight ended and I comforted fartman while convincing his girlfriend that I was 100% Apache after showing a picture of my father. She apologized for not believing me before returning to the side of her man. What separates good nights from great nights is surprise, and I hadn’t received mine just yet. Soon we were about to leave as two more stumbled out of the bar. They were the gentlemen next to us during the ‘Lips set. I said, “there are my Canadian friends,” and congratulated them for driving all the way from Saskatchewan to catch the show. Understandably this drunk pair looked more confused by every word that passed my lips. I fill them in that I saw them at the show and was just being stupid for my amusement. This gets the certain defiant reply that I have it all wrong and he is from Colorado - born and raised. I skoff and tell them I know a Canadian when I see one and that it’s cool, we are in Denver after all. This only gets one of them angry and he charges me with a fire in his eyes only half lit as the liquor has quenched most of it. He runs at me like a bull with arms extended, head down careening for my midsection. I jump a foot back and hook his arms, only to hear curse filled protests of his arms pinned behind him. I smirk and tell him he even fights like a Canadian, which makes him stomp and protest louder, which in turn makes Tore, myself, and his friend laugh harder. His buddy steps in and takes him a few feet away. As they leave I find myself shaking both of their hands thanking them for the good time, and as they turn their backs I shout, “enjoy the rest of your stay in the States!” As Tore and I walk back to my car through the snow I know this night will live on as a night with the bluebird and the reason why I won’t write anything.

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