Observations From the Hank Thompson Suite

It's concert night and I'm flying solo. My wife doesn't know who Beach House is, but not only offered her blessing, she also picked up my ticket.

In spite of my efforts, my timing was off. My normal route downtown has been lost to construction for the next two years and I still haven’t learned to gauge the new transit time. Once downtown, I realize another concert is taking place, grabbing up my preferred parking spots. I get lucky. Driving another two blocks, I find a spot facing a large group of women. They are doing Yoga in the park.

People headed to separate concerts pass in front of me as I watch the Yoga in what I try to convince myself is a non-creepy way. As I finish my bottle of water (a product of Fit Bit guilt), I try to determine who is joining me for Beach House and who is going to 21 Pilots, based on appearance. Unofficially, I nail two of every three--including the trio of shaggy-haired kids smoking cigarettes and wearing heavy coats on a 75 degree evening.

I make the four block walk to Cain's and fall in line with people much younger than me. Of these, more than half would at least partially overlap with the hipster circle on a Venn Diagram. As we funnel into the venue, everybody is pleasant and polite, maintaining quiet conversations. The doorman takes a cursory glance at my driver's license and fits me with a drinking wristband. It's Tuesday and liquor drinks are outside the budget, but I keep the option open; I've got a long night ahead.

The dim light falls softly on the wooden dance floor, giving it a reddish hue as Roy Orbison sings for the lonely over the PA. The stage has been rushed two rows deep, so I won't be up front tonight. Everyone else has scattered to the perimeter and bar line. With time to kill, I scan for beer choices, but there's nothing to tempt me.

It's still forty-five minutes until showtime, so I take a seat in what I dub the Hank Thompson Suite. Far from luxurious, it consists of a three-tier aluminum riser positioned beneath the singer’s portrait. The seating gives me a place to play with my phone while the elevation offers a good view of the stage. I'm not accustomed to being chilly inside Cain's, but in the Hank Thompson Suite, I am directly beneath an air conditioning vent, keeping things a tepid 66 degrees in the immediate area.

As I keep myself occupied with my phone, I glance up intermittently as the fans that continue to stream inside. I am clearly the oldest person here and I don't see a close second.

It’s impossible not to be self-conscious considering I’ve got almost twenty years on three quarters of the people here. My mind draws a comparison to Dave Marsh or some other relic at Rolling Stone. I'm the old guy trying to be cool and relevant. At least I’m not over the top trying to fit in; I’m not wearing Chuck Taylors, a v-neck t-shirt and a scarf. Still, I’m less than an hour removed from making a pizza for my five-year-old daughter and twenty-four hours from now, I’ll be reading If You Give a Pig a Pancake and complaining about being tired after staying out past 11 on a Tuesday.

Demographics say I shouldn’t be here. I would be better suited for a classic rock show or maybe an alternative act that has either survived or resurfaced. However, years ago I swore I’d never be that guy that steadfastly claims all the good music was made while he was in school. As such, it has become a hobby of mine to search out the new and obscure, applying a simple rubric—does it sound good to me? That frees me from complicated labels and herd mentality. Avoiding over-the-air radio helps, too.

I can remember when I was young, and it was my music. I would show up looking like a rock and roll Zack Morris— mixing concert t-shirts, Alexander Julian button-ups, flavor-of-the-week-wash Levi's and Converse All Star high-tops in a caustic fashion alchemy while compulsively pulling a red Goody brush through my sandy blonde hair. I'm sure people thought I was just an idiot with cool taste in music. I was an idiot; my taste questionable.

The problem is, once you cross the Rubicon and leave the homogeneity of your contemporaries, you end up looking less like a fan and more like a chaperone. This reality was a touch too harsh on a non-drinking night. Old, alone and uncomfortably aware of my circumstances, I placated myself with anthropological observations.

A young, bearded man with a Castro cap is talking across me to a woman with a camera around her neck. He's prattling about scanners and open source software making me want to physically assault him. Finally, he excuses himself to take a phone call.

I spot a girl following around a borderline hipster. I would classify her as preppy hipster--she's got a toe in the pool, but good sense and a generous clothing budget keep her from jumping in. She’s carrying a chevron stripe bag large enough to carry a stack of records that have little more than a wallet and phone inside. Her expression and body language suggests she is there at the bequest of her date. In return for her company, he spends most of his time in the booze line and messing with his phone. 

Though I can't hear their conversations, she seems to beg him for scraps of attention. I conclude he's an idiot.

We're now less than half an hour to showtime and more people file into the venue, many going directly to the beer line, which has now expanded to two roughly parallel lines, thirty feet in length.

Another couple appears in my line of sight. Again, the woman is well out of the league of her companion but is not nearly as pretty as the neglected prepster. This guy, tall and lanky, is wearing old jeans and a tight t-shirt advertising a nearby state. His beard explodes from his face like an unraveling ball of yarn; his hair pulled back, the oily strands stretching across what in less than six months will be a full-on friar's cap. 

They move over and take a seat next to me. The man, who I name Bonaroo, has a peculiar odor. By my estimation, the active ingredients include cigarette smoke, beer and a good three days since his last productive shower.

As I'm sitting near the smoking exit, I am witness to a lot of foot traffic. One hippie, in anticipation of the held door, pulls out an American Spirit, because nature.

At 8:00, the lights go down, the crowd roars and people come flooding in from the smoking area like shoppers entering Walmart on Black Friday. During the opener's acoustic set, somebody yells out "Freebird." The collective groan has become as cliche as the request itself, though far more appropriate.

As the opener is finishing up, I spot a man who is definitely older than I am. He looks a little like Larry David and is wearing Birkenstocks. He kills a 12 ounce can of beer in four sips and rejoins the beer line. He repeats the process at least four times over the next two hours.

By 9:00, the room is near capacity. Through the growing crowd, I notice the prepster girl still can't get her date's attention. Irrationally, this agitates me. If I wasn't married. And twice her age.

I notice a guy who appears to be approximately my age hanging out nearby. He seems reasonable until he disappears and returns with beer. It’s almost impossible to respect somebody that has just paid $20 for a six-pack of Coors—on multiple levels. After guzzling two of them, he goes into bro mode, yelling and fist bumping his companions. I think those might be Oakleys on the back of his head.

For all the curious wardrobe choices of the kids, they have at least retired the idea of wearing concert shirts to concerts, a concept the classic rock crowd refuses to let go. To them it establishes credibility and serves as an open invite to conversation. The classic rock crowd certainly loves to recount past shows. A Blue Oyster Cult Fire of Unknown Origin shirt is still perfectly acceptable at any concert. Granted, it’s a medium, something its owner hasn’t been since Reagan’s first term, but it doesn’t matter. This is a visa in the wearer’s rock and roll passport that triggers a litany of memories of varying accuracy.

More people work their way toward the stage. A man likely older than me is holding court for a group of younger people. He looks like the drummer from a bad jazz combo, wearing a black derby, silk-back vest and stonewash jeans--the back middle belt loop of which touches his T12 vertebrae.

A trio of girls march in my direction. The presumed ring leader is built like an offensive guard, wearing a modified new wave t-shirt, exposing a large portion of a leopard print bra, each cup large enough to comfortably house a youth soccer ball.

A few songs into the Beach House set, an unattractive couple sits next to me. Cocktails and the music quickly bring the woman to her feet and she performs Kata on shaky legs while her companion sits with a shocked expression that has nothing to do with what’s going on around him. The routine ends abruptly and the two disappear out the smoking doors.

Beach House meets expectations with a solid, at times hypnotic performance. Simple but complex; sparse, but rich; dark but bright. Victoria Legrand's voice is one in a million; she and Alex Scally create a swirling, unique atmosphere with their melancholy dream pop. The addition of bass and drums gave the sound added punch, bringing me out of my pleasant trance during "Myth." It sounds good to me. My age and my company are irrelevant.

After the second encore, the house lights come up and we all shuffle toward the exit. Outside on the sidewalk, many of the younger fans spill into the nearby bars, keeping the night going. I head straight home; I know the rest of the week will be hell.