so, somewhere along the line I got old

The venue was small, very much a hipster coffee house, with a small stage and tiny booths tucked back against the walls, lit by modified lanterns with red bulbs. Sitting in there, it’s like observing a microcosm of a high school, each affiliation and allegiance signified by a parting of the hair, the style of a shirt, the flavor of a scowl, all of it very much theater. It’s a place to be seen. Or is that scene? I forget. Anyway, I”m here because I’m playing bass in a band of friends–their normal bass player couldn’t be there and I could, so it seemed that the equation balanced. The first two bands play only slightly variable styles of punk rock, all of it very angry, screamy, headachy, and fuck-you-ima-kick-your-ass-y, and I remember a time when I was younger during which I would have marinated myself in this music, this culture. But tonight, sitting in the back, waiting to unload our equipment, all the sudden I’m the cynic, the adult, the person who claims the music to be too loud, remarking to friends about how little I understand young people today.

As we were warming up, I played a lick of Rancid on my bass, and one of the kids from the second band pointed at me and made a reverent noise, and told me to keep playing, twirling his fingers to say it over the loud speakers. I didn’t, because I’m not or have I ever been his bass-playing monkey, and actually wanted to say “Listen, I was listening to Rancid when you were in sixth grade,” but what the hell is wrong with me? When did I get so bitter? A minute later, the same guy asked for “My Sharona,” and I gave it to him.

The crowd was modest after the much more popular second band, but there were a few people milling around when we started. I was so busy watching the two guitar players for cues–I had only learned all of the songs that same day, and even then I use “learn” very loosely–that I didn’t realize that the crowd was actually getting bigger. By the time I looked up, there were quite a few of them, not nearly as many as the second band, but still more than I would have thought for a band from Morris, MN that no one had ever heard of. It wasn’t punk rock, but there were kids there in the front row nodding along and grooving, as if they were enjoying something they weren’t expecting to enjoy.

After the show, there were handshakes and kind words from spectators and members of other bands, and I thought: maybe these kids are too bad. But I’m still glad I’m not going to be teaching them English.