Who: Seville • Rival Schools • Dashboard Confessional
I drove to Cincinnati tonight. When the Mike the Volunteer Team Leader decided that tonight's was the show that he wanted to see, I offered to drive, since I constantly mooch rides off of him. Now, I didn’t actually expect him to take me up on my offer, because well, I’m a horrible driver. Everyone knows this about me. Nonetheless, Mike wanted to ride in my new “pimped-out” car, so it looked like I was going to be acting as chauffeur. Mike asked me later if his friend Tim could come along with this sort of evil giddy grin on his face that frightened me. I told Mike earlier in the year that my womb was open if Tim wanted to plant something in it, and I think that Mike took me a bit too seriously. Still, Tim’s a funny fellow, so I was all for his coming along, even when Mike called me one night at work and told me that Tim wanted to bring a lady friend of his along. (Yeah, how much do you love the phrase lady friend?) Now, I was not all about having to compete with this woman for the attention of my men, but I decided to deal and welcomed Tim’s woman to a place in my car.
I was about as nervous as I get driving to Mike’s house, knowing that I was only a few minutes away from potentially killing two people whom I love, what with my habit of randomly crashing into both moving and still objects. Mike and Tim were being very Mike and Tim-y when I finally made it into Mike’s house after passing by it several times and having to call him, whereupon I learned that I was more or less standing right in his yard. Yeah, I’m cool, all right. Tim pointed out the light-up sign that Mike had turned to the side that read HATE rather than the side that said LOVE and introduced me to Mike’s new couch pillows. Now, you may not think that there’s anything particularly enticing about the thought of couch pillows, but these were like God’s friggin' gift to the couch, I swear. They felt like they were filled with water. Like a waterbed in my grubby hands, I tell you. I would totally have Mike’s children based solely on the fact that he owns those pillows. I then made Mike show me this weird . . . thing . . . that he bought at a going-out-of-business sale at Lazarus a while back. It’s one of those black light boxes that shows all of the dirt that’s lurking about, and let me tell you, I wouldn’t touch my own face with a ten-foot pole after looking in that thing. Remember that, folks. Next time you feel like licking my nose or somesuch, restrain yourself. Your mouth will thank you later. Tim and Mike then had an argument as to whether one of Mike’s random action figures or his *NSYNC doll would win in a deathmatch. (I'd like you to know that I actually went to nsync.com to see where the stupid star goes in the band’s name. Details, details, folks.) Tim believed that JC could outdance anyone any day, by the way. We then piled into my little Dill and took off for Cincinnati.
Mike took over my CD player, as expected, so we shouted over the drone of random rock bands about school and cars and life and the fact that the hazard light button is a major feature of all foreign cars until we silently settled back for the drive about an hour into it. Mike and Tim flipped through guitar catalogues as I passed absolutely everyone on the road, excited by the fact that I was finally breaking in my engine after having the car for three months. The thing had never been above 75 MPH in all of it’s 3000 miles, sadly. I made it my goal to be the last on the road to turn on my headlights, and I did just that right outside of Cincinnati, where we started discussing dinner plans. Tim and Mike were all about making me eat at Waffle House for the first time in my life, so Mike scoured the countryside for the yellow waffle in the sky.
Inside, I honestly felt like I was in some kind of weird movie set in a tiny town complete with stereotypical scruffy man downing coffee and chain-smoking while waitress dotes on him, asking how he is and if she can offer him some food or her body. Mike and Tim had claimed that the waitress would be like my grandma or my mom; they lied. However, the menu made it worth the trip. Who knew that Waffle House is the world’s #1 server of steak? That’s right. No one. Oh, but they are, according to the menu. I ordered an omelet and hash browns with toast but didn’t want the grits that came with the omelet, which was a major offense, apparently. I filled up quickly, so as we were getting up to pay our bill, Mike asked if I was going to need a box, and when I told him that I didn’t, he and Tim sat back down and began devouring the remainder of my meal in a way that only men can. They wouldn’t eat the part of the omelet that I had eaten from, though, carefully avoiding the AIDS of the Mouth germs that I evidently left behind. Mike extracted millions of coins from his pocket and counted out enough dimes and nickels to cover his meal, and when I gave him a Look™, he said, “If they won't take my good American currency, then I'll take it elsewhere.” I was amused. That is, until I got out enough money to cover the entire meal, and Mike tried to pawn him coins off on me.
I had to use the restroom badly by the time we got to the Bogart’s area, so we shoved all of our valuables into my trunk and headed into the Supa Ghetto Kroger™, as Mike referred to it. Mike and Tim examined the massive selection of 40’s and decided that being situated near Kentucky is good for a store’s stock of liquor, as I searched frantically for the Supa Ghetto Toilet™. Once inside Bogart’s, we headed for the balcony and played a bit of Rummy for the hour leading up to the concert, Tim and Mike yelling, “Jerk!” at each other and thrusting their fists into the air when one did something that the other didn’t like.
When the first band, Seville, came on, we were sitting a bit away from the front of the balcony, so a girl grabbed a chair and sat down directly in front of me. I leaned forward, tapped her on the shoulder, and used my thumb to point to the side as an indication that she should move out of my way. It was possibly the rudest thing that I’ve ever done, and believe it or not, I felt really horrible about doing it even as I was. However, I knew that she wouldn’t be able to hear me if I asked her to move, so the thumb seemed like the obvious alternative. Mike apparently saw me do it and wrote me a little note, wondering how I’m able to retain my job working with people every day. The chick ended up moving away completely, so I was able to enjoy Seville, a band from Florida that reminded me of Green Day’s style and Relient K’s harmonies. They had a singing drummer, and they were all right. Nothin’ special but all right. Duvall was from Chicago, and they were less all right but still okay. They had a geeky, balding singer who had the same vocal range as Ryan Miller of Guster, which should have made me love the band, but I didn’t. They hurt my ears, actually. Rival Schools was fun and cute, and I knew some of their songs, but they weren’t really all that more special than the other two bands. They did make me notice, however, how odd it is that wherever a band is from, if they play punk rock, they WILL wear mismatched clothes, jump around in the same exact way, and pretend to smash their guitars against the stage. I also started to wonder if I’m the only concertgoer who secretly hopes that dancing guitar-players will trip on their amp cords and fall down. Am I? The singer sounded strangely like the singer of Bright Eyes at times, but I think it was just because he was still going through puberty. (World Invitational was the song of the night for them, so I suggest a download of that if you want to hear a nice representation.) Mike pointed out the fact that the tattoo on the elbow of the guy in front of us changed size with the flexing of his arm, so that consumed me for the rest of Rival Schools’s set.
And then Dashboard Confessional came on. I was beyond giddy by the time they took the stage. Chris’s band was the guys from Seville plus one of the guys from Sunny Day Real Estate. (I think it was Dan, but I have a hard time keeping the boys of that band straight, so don’t go quoting me.) Let’s do a little set list, shall we?:
The Places You Have Come to Fear the Most
It was . . . breathtaking. Chris’s voice was breathtaking. That’s the only word I can use to describe it. I couldn’t even sing along half of the time. In fact, I kept wishing that everyone else would shut up, too. I just wanted it to be Chris and me and no one else. I wanted to be the only one singing, especially during The Best Deceptions. But even with everyone else there, I was totally blown away. It would have been so much better if Chris had been alone - just a guitar and a man - but I can see why not everyone would be as into that as I would be. I felt like the band overpowered him at times, though. The song lyrics are all so . . . personal . . . and touching . . . and he could have done so much more with his voice if there weren’t any drums or other guitars to interfere. And there were so many unplayed songs that I wanted to hear. Turpentine Chaser and A Plain Morning . . . and pretty much every other song that he didn’t play. But still. I didn’t know whether to cry or smile or not do a thing throughout the entire concert. The Good Fight was incredible. I never imagined that it could sound like that - rich and full and heartfelt and wonderful. After we were done singing along to that, Chris stopped and told us that it was the best show that they’ve ever had. And I believed him. Because wow. I’m a fumbling idiot, aren’t I?
After the show, Mike reprimanded me for having Dashboard too far down on the list of bands that I dig, something that I have since corrected. We then decided to visit a grocery store to stock up for the ride home. We went for Walgreen's, and Tim began discussing the fact that the store is always being picketed because they make diapers out of babies. Yeah, that’s right. DIAPERS FROM BABIES. Seeing signs indicating that we would be forced to walk around the building to another door, we headed back to Kroger, for “milk and a 40”, Tim said. Mike suggested that we buy a tub of butter, arguing that it was sure to last us the entire trip home. Instead, I took a picture of kraut juice, despite the threat of being kicked out of the store.
Mike tried to go to sleep as soon as we got back on the freeway, but the sound that my car made going over those annoying little bridge-like things that are made of different material than the rest of the road woke him up every couple of minutes. Tim just sat absolutely silent in the back of the car, watching to make sure that I didn’t try to kill the three of us by suddenly switching lanes into the front of a UPS truck, I’m sure. I put on some Elliott Smith in an attempt to put myself to sleep to make the drive a little more dangerous and fun, but it was to no avail. In Orient, I stopped at a gas station and gave my little car a pat on the trunk for making it almost the entire trip without getting thirsty. (New cars are amazing, I swear.) The pump wasn’t allowing me any gas, so I asked Mike if he knew how to work them there new-fangled machines. He suggested that I attempt to try to pay before I pumped, so I headed for the cashier. When I neared the door, I saw two of the three men behind the counter watching me and laughing, which led me to believe that something was up. The cashier asked me how I was doing, and I told him that it’s important to inform the customer that she must pay before pumping, but he gave me this horrible faux-innocent look and said, “The light’s on. It should be ready.” I smiled my most polite smile, thanked him, and left while the other cashiers began laughing again. And they laughed still when I came in to pay and laughed more when I left. I was not a happy girl. I called them dicks, but Mike claims that it’s my lack of tact that ruined me. I scoff.
Back in Columbus, Tim and Mike began discussing Jack the Ripper, so Mike had to whip out his Jack the Ripper book and show us the pictures of the girl with the two triangles cut in her cheeks. Lovely way to end the evening, I thought. Before I left, though, I had to grab Mike’s new couch pillows again. Now, you may not think that there’s anything particularly enticing about the thought of couch pillows, but these were like God’s friggin' gift to the couch, I swear. They felt like they were filled with water. Like a waterbed in my grubby hands, I tell you. I would totally have Mike’s children based solely on the fact that he owns those pillows. Tim walked me out and scared away many a man hiding in the bushes, waiting to cut triangles into my cheeks, no doubt. And then I went home and watched Willow.
My trips with Mike get progressively better. I think this one could have had to do with the fact that I actually knew the band rather than knowing just a few songs here and there like I have with Further Seems Forever and The Juliana Theory. No matter the reason, though. 'Twas an amazing night.
Where: Bogart's • Cincinnati, Ohio
When: November 11th, 2001
Saints and Sailors - After this song, I told Mike that I had heard enough to make me happy and could go home content.
Shirts and Gloves - Chris claimed that this song is about Dawson’s Creek and replaced “Make sure that I’m up-to-date on TV night” with “Make sure that I’m up-to-date on Dawson’s Creek“. I was amused.
The Brilliant Dance - A brilliant song. The words, “Our sidestepping has come to be a brilliant dance,” get me every time. This is the song I look forward to seeing again the most.
Ender Will Save Us - Such great lyrics. Totally the way I had been feeling all month. Chris replaced “What is it you need? Is it what I need?” with “What is it you need? It is Tenacious D?” We laughed.
Screaming Infidelities - Everyone knew this song. It rather freaked me out.
(encore)
The Best Deceptions
The Good Fight
Again I Go Unnoticed