Yesterday I went to a concert (Jukebox the Ghost and Allen Stone opening for Jack’s Mannequin) at the House of Blues with David and Lizzy. We were there mostly for Jukebox–Lizzy’s found an adorable video for their song, “Hold It In,” a few months earlier and we found them on Spotify, only to fall in love.
(You should check them out.)
It was an early concert. Doors opened at 5 and the first opening act (Allen Stone, with an incredible soul voice and the face of a nerdy ginger) started at 6. So we made it to House of Blues at 5:30 and proceeded to alienate everyone there.
First I said, a little too loud, when discussing where we wanted to stand or sit: “Well, we could stand on the floor with THESE jerks.” The girl in front of me didn’t appreciate it.
Then we kept exclaiming about how unreasonable the coat check price of $5 per item was.
Then Lizzy and I bought Jukebox shirts and went to the ladies’ room to put them on.
I figured it was “crowded dressing room” rules. There wasn’t a lot going on, we didn’t want to take up multiple stalls, so I pulled Lizzy into the large handicapped stall and promptly whipped my shirt off. All of the sudden the door to the stall rattled violently. I looked at the door and it didn’t seem like there was someone trying to get in, so I said to Lizzy, “Don’t worry, it’s just an effect from someone else closing their door, no one is shaking our door.”
Only to hear a loud voice say, “I’m shaking yo’ door. Y’all can’t have two women in a stall. I don’t care if you’re sisters, girlfriends, what. If you don’t get outta there now I’mma call security on you.”
We’re flustered for a second, and half-heartedly yell something about changing clothes, but she’s not taking no for an answer. This woman was large and I wouldn’t have put it past her to run down the door. So Lizzy, ever-helpful, opens up the door…and I am standing shirtless, staring at the 300-pound bathroom attendant.
Doubtless that helped our case of “nothing fishy going on.” My head was swirling with arguments about how unlikely it was that at 5:30pm we were hooking up or doing drugs in the stall, but I could see this woman would have none of it. Lizzy went to another stall. I put on my shirt. And the bathroom attendant muttered to herself about the crazy things she’d seen and wouldn’t put up with for the next ten minutes, within earshot of the entire bathroom, as I stood by the stalls and gave cheerful smiles to the women leaving their stalls.
Then there were the $120 tables and the security guard who would just pluck people from where they were standing and tell them to get out of Dodge and the high-school girls who didn’t have any rhythm and the entire audience who didn’t understand why we were dancing and shouting the words to all the Jukebox songs, but who then went crazy for the much more mediocre Jack’s Mannequin set.
There were $11 24-ounce Bud Lights. There was a group of girls so drunk (at 8pm) that they couldn’t tell which direction was which, or how stairs functioned. There were the I-swear-they-were-7-feet-tall men standing in our collective way.
And yet, leaving for the night, having chatted with the guys from Jukebox with a pretty great story and a bag full of merch, somehow leaving of our own volition and without a bouncer escorting us, we agreed: It was a pretty great night.