It feels good to sing through a telephone. Really good. Photo from .
Walking into , you must always brace yourself for an impenetrable riot of raggedy shirts, glittering face jewelry and whorls of hair at odd angles. If showing up fashionably late, you must steel yourself against the wall of stink that hits you as you enter the blackness of that front room. A show in progress at this tiny venue is an entity in itself — usually a large, hot, smelly monster with an ear-shattering love call. You will sweat every toxin from your body when encountering it.
It is difficult to gauge how fiercely you must prepare. Can you only handle this drunk? Irksomely caffeinated? It’s cold outside; should you dress accordingly? Do you know someone who is coming? Will you cling to them and smoke all their cigarettes? It’s best not to overthink it. Arrive in a state of sobriety (with the intention to do away with it later), comfortable shoes and stickers on your face. A crown of neon pipe cleaners is optional.
The evening began as usual, pumping a healthy stream of fans through the front door. Teenagers, garden-fresh from their suburban enclaves, giggled and chain-smoked in freedom. Old bastions of the Denver scene leaned on the walls, lightly grizzled and greeting friends. The clatter of Crack Magik and Henry Sugar warred with the thumping blip-hop in the back room.
When it was time for to come on, some of the aforementioned folk had already left, thus branding themselves as staunch loyalists. It was barely the witching hour. Was there better mischief awaiting these young shavers? Their luck was already out; one whiff from Mom would reveal a night no spritz of Calgon could spirit away. Worse, they would be missing the rush of the crowd as they surged joyfully towards the familiar crackle of telephone mics.
The head of Matt Reilly, frazzle-haired like the best druggy preschool teacher you never had, was the only thing visible from my wuss-perch atop a folding chair. Obscuring drummer Ian Vanek and everything else was the hopping crowd, whose sheer joy and enthusiasm electrified the humid air. Fists pumping and elbows flying, the audience sang along and banged the ventilation in time to “Skuffed Up My Huffy” favorites like “River Phoenix” and “Fuk Tha Prince A Pull Iz Dum.” The music, fuzzy and jubilantly urgent, stumbled in forgivable hiccups; the real-life rhythms got caught in the spokes of the pre-recorded segues and samples. Unperturbed, the breathless duo surged forward. The audience rippled with ecstatic crowd-surfers and a slam-dance whirlpool.
The short set closed with a recording of the Ramones’ “Howling at the Moon” — they’d played the Ramones cover of “Do You Wanna Dance?” earlier — and again, no one seemed to mind at all. There was a rapturous energy that could not be squashed. Nearby, two young men hugged ardently. “I really love you, man!” said one to the other. “I love you too, dude!” his friend replied. “I have to work in the morning!” said the first one. It was an unacceptable buzzkill. His friend responded by slapping him across the face.
Alex Edgeworth is a Denver freelance writer and regular Reverb contributor.
