Confession: I love when I woke up today I could still smell the cigarettes from last night. And that my ears were still ringing–which is probably because I had ended the assault on them only 5 or so hours before I tried waking up. These are signs of a good night.
Last night, after some traditional birthday festivities, we went to do one of my all-time favorite things: go see a friend’s band in a bar. Actually the band featured a friend of a friend. But it doesn’t matter when drums pound my own heartbeat into submission and the guitarist can’t decide if he’s playing for Stevie Wonder or Pearl Jam. I’m a happy girl when there’s live music (and it’s at least decent).
I can’t imagine my people in California have had the chance to grasp how much I love live music. My best friend Cassie from college would get it, having pulled me off a band’s tour bus. My Florida people (especially him and her) would get it, having traipsed to The Social or more shamefully, The Back Booth than two dozen times during my term at the boarding school. I always said that of the very few things I’d miss about Orlando when I left, The Social would be at the top of the list. I haven’t been to anywhere even remotely like these places since I moved here.
Last night, at Peri‘s in Fairfax, I found one. I walked in. When the air of cigarettes and hoppy beer smacked me senseless–when the guitars made me feel like I was on the last lap of the Jericho parade, I knew I was home.
I get so much pleasure from the work and craft of musicians, it feels like I’m stealing. I do absolutely nothing to earn that joy and delight. Music transforms my mind and heart the way reading does. Only with music–especially, live, loud music–there is greater immediacy because that very note is only played once in that very moment, and then it is gone. It’s over. Live music- musicians at work–to quote Holden Caulfield, really knocks me out.
There was a different kind of knocked out I felt when I had to face the morning. Ugh. But I got extra sleep because with a bare face, there are many fewer steps between my empty coffee cup and the door. The trouble is, I’m also missing the cosmetic help to hid the telltale signs of a good night. But I assure you: I feel way more alive than I look.
In the spirit of feeling alive, I’m headed into The City tonight on an ennui-busting expedition to Four Barrel, Humphrey Slocombe, and Phoenix books. My Florida friends are also no strangers to my Friday Night Ennui. And while I might be a stranger to the bare face, I’ve found that it blends in best with the hipsters on Valencia St.