It would be my first solo show outing in LA.
There’s something about going to a show by myself to see a band I barely know in a venue I’ve never been to. To me, this is the essence of my blog; it’s what makes me tick. They are called musical adventures, aren’t they? It’s all about chance: I might fall in love with a new band, meet someone cool, have something really interesting happen.
When I told my friends I was going to Satellite, aka the place formerly known by the way cooler name ‘Spaceland’, I was given two bits of knowledge: “it smells like vomit” and “get there early to valet in the small lot”. Well, I got there verrry early and got to smell vomit before the first band even came on. But, I did get to watch the hipster fashion show walk through the front door as I sat at a table through mildly interesting opening sets. 62% of all men in the room were wearing plaid or flannel shirts. I was bending the notes into ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ as I recalled the week in middle school when EVERYONE saw that Nirvana video premier on MTV, came to school the next day and made fun of it, and not two days later had traded in their Structure and Limited shirts for flannels. That was an interesting week.
Young Widows are a three-piece from Kentucky that are considered to be in a genre deemed ‘post-hardcore’. I find post-anything an interesting moniker; it usually means diluting the essence of the mother genre. But what you get instead is like those dishes at fancy restaurants that are labeled ‘deconstructed’; the elements are there, but not in their normal form.
I was standing at the side of the stage as the bassist headbanged to the point where I thought his head might fall off. The guitarist/vocalist effortlessly played and sang while the drummer banged along. I was watching the crowd, mostly guys entranced with their skills, and then a drunk girl who’s boyfriend was none to happy, and then a hipster couple who smiled too much and pogo-danced throughout all three sets even though it didn’t fit the music. The guys all sported 24 ounce PBRs; it is not a joke that hipsters drink PBR, it is truth! And they sip it at deliberate times during the songs, too…it’s like the Stepford Wives but single, thrift store shopping men. Oh, hipsters….why are you such good writing material?
Beyond some coordinated lighting efforts spearheaded by the bassist, Young Widows play a very no-frills set that is crowd pleasing but not life changing. It was good space out music in the former Spaceland as I pondered my post-Texas existence.
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