Last night: Connells at the Pour House. I have mentioned elsewhere in these pages how much I love the Connells, how much I have loved the Connells since time out of mind, and that I don’t even care if that dates me.
All-Time Favorite Neighbor Tate and I went last night to the Pour House. Tate remembers going to hear The Veldt during her UNC days. I remember backpacking in Europe during a semester abroad, and listening to The Connells on long train rides. Every time they’d launch into something from Fun and Games or Ring last night, I was back on the night train we rode from Venice to Vienna, when my friends and I all fell in love with an Italian soldier who got off in Torino, and then the train climbed through the Alps and it started to snow in the moonlight. Funny how music can do that to you.
The show was as much fun as it always is, when The Connells are playing. Loved every note. The real story last night, I think, is the excellently awful crowd behavior. I was excited to attend a show at which I would probably be in the low-to-middle end of the age range, and not feel like a chaperone. This crowd, however, has forgotten how to go out. The girl in the teal coat navigated her way in and out of the dense crowd to her spot on the front row every six minutes, bumping everybody’s arm and sloshing beer all the way in and out. Her friend toppled over and fell on Tate’s foot and had to be hauled up off the floor. The blonde girl in front of me turned her back to the stage at several points and gushed and squealed with her former sorority sisters. The guys behind me carried on a shouted conversation lasting twenty minutes regarding who has seen whom from their high school crowd this week. The tall people kept maneuvering in front of the short people, precipitating some entertaining exchanges.
Tate moved to the back and things escalated. The band invited us all to to slow dance, “adult version of middle school,” to ’74, ’75. I believe it was at this point that I was showered from above by a rogue beer from the balcony. The crowd was swaying as one, and I was getting bobbled from all four sides, when I realized there was a hand on my back. Then an arm around my shoulder. And then around my waist. And then an inch from me having to get loud. And then around my shoulder again. I think it was sneak-attack sideways slow dancing. I turned to look at tall handsome stranger beside me, who was staring straight ahead and pretending to know nothing about the situation. And, well, I don’t remember what song was next, but it was one of my favorites, so, um, I stayed put.
That was all just plain weird. The crowd parted and I threaded my way through to Tate, who was talking to friends. Happily married Tate was amused by the general bad behavior of the crowd. “I think I just got hit on by that guy who told me I look great tonight and then ran off looking embarrassed,” said Tate, who did indeed look great. I told her, “I just got a beer poured on me from the balcony and then I think I got groped by Tall Guy.” Tate and I blink at each other for a minute, and she says, “There are too many boys in this room.” We went home laughing, because you KNOW you have had a Friday night when all of that has happened in the space of three hours. Cheers to the Pour House, and a rowdy crowd, and of course the band, and a pre-holiday weekend.
I am staying in tonight.