Martha’s Vineyard- Red Show Diaries
A giant eye spray painted on a tarp looms over a makeshift stage next to an apartment complex, as two lights border on seizure inducing, a stolen traffic sign leaned against an electric guitar case, tragically hip students like myself stand around, waiting for the show to start. The venue calls itself Martha’s Vineyard, a great name I admit. You have to know someone to get in or hope the venue responds to your direct message begging for its location, luckily I’m in the first camp, not to brag. There may or may not be a bar indoors, if there is it’s just a joke, if there isn’t then they could have one if they wanted to, they’re cool enough. Cigarette smoke hangs in the air as a Spotify playlist placates the attendees' need for sound. Giggling girls in skirts too short for this weather start taking pictures of the scene five minutes before show, sound system assembled and ready to spew. Other notables include a couple leaning against the building, old enough to have drank the night of September 11th, 2001, a sound tech in overalls Spider-Man jumping from sound board to dirt patch and then to stage, and the doorman for the night, making change out of his Fanny pack. I type a description of the scene to avoid making eye contact with anyone.
Band one: Wyatt Wyatt covering Death Grips. Emcee breathily announces the show in a sort of makeshift fanfare, thanking us all for coming. Makeshift, that’s how I describe the scene to my family who would surely warn me not to hang out in dark alleys like this, but I digress. What the fuck is up, the singer announces, a single performer on stage, neck muscles straining as guttural rap comes out their mouth. After the opener, they take a moment to catch their breath and declare the next song to be an original. I wouldn’t know if it wasn’t, I’m not hip, nor will I ever claim to be such. Another Death Grips cover follows, each time they cue music I jump a little, a nasty habit I’ll never outgrow. A wall of sound washes over me, if I was more luxurious I could compare it to a massage of some sort, but I’m not, so there’s nothing to compare the the gentle pulsing of my rib cage to. People hang out of the upstairs bedroom watching the show. They claim the next song is tender, anyone who thinks it would be should be at a Jimmy Buffett concert instead (no shame in that, I enjoy a trip to Margaritaville). Wyatt Wyatt feigns meditation mid song, dedicating the set to the Mariners, they just got into the playoffs I think. There’s no citations for the rest of the performance. The music was sick and all but most impressively, while working the soundboard, screaming and flailing Wyatt Wyatt appears to have not broken into a glistening sweat. The crowd breaks into a mosh pit and dirt smogs the scene, I’d join in but I'm only 92 pounds of small town polite. I choose my battles. Wyatt Wyatt jumps in the crowd, bumping and crashing with their adoring public.
Dirt no longer clogs the air, having been replaced by the thin veil of cigarette smoke, from a brief intermission. Some Fucking Vegan comes the the stage, their set is all originals. They seem much more rock-oriented, which I know remarkably more about than Death Grips. The guitarist and bassist pass a smoke between them as the opening chords play. They sing a song mentioning cigarettes, I think this is intentional, if it isn’t, I’ll just pretend it is. They proclaim the next song is pretty chill, and this time it’s not a joke. It’s a song called “Get Off my Fucking Lawn” and it’s about a breakup, I would have cried to this when I was in high school, and, hell, I’d cry to it now if such an occasion arose. Young adult heads bob along, occasionally bending their knees ever so slightly, in understanding. Their next song is about going to a strip club at the age 18. They’re a collective they say, no set roster, come and jam, they say as another member comes to stage, becoming the frontman. This band feels familiar, I listened to a lot of indie rock as a teen, so it’s comfort food at this point. My favorite song is their penultimate number called “Sand in your Gas Tank” take a wild guess as to what it’s about. They wish a happy birthday to Oleander, who invited me here, happy birthday Oleander.
The next band declares themselves the Pixies for the night. I saw them in the ninth grade, their assertion isn't sacrilegious. Their sound is powerful, and my eardrums will undoubtedly suffer come morning, but what have they ever done for me? I check the poster, their name is Punch Buggy. Their lead singer goes between a killer Wilhelm scream, and a normal singing voice. Two guys fight each other next to me. They hug each other after, exchanging names, they’ll either be friends until tomorrow morning, or for many years to come. They scream “it’s educational!” And it is. Cue "Where is my Mind", Fight Club credits roll, etc. this is my niche. A song later, they change drummers, their usual drummer just got back in country, Oleander substituted for him. Happy birthday Oleander. After their set ends, sirens sound, deadly silent, as everyone prepares to run. Oh wait it’s just a fire truck, someone says, news ripples, back to the festivities.
Pleasant Bus Stop is next, the only band I knew about prior to this, and they are Joy Division for the night. Oh hey it’s Oleander’s band. Happy birthday Oleander. Wyatt Wyatt is in the band too, it’s a real crossover episode. You’d know Oleander and Liv (drummer) from their other band, Ponzi. It’s 10pm and they play a song I’ve listened to countless times, I know the title, but I got six hours of sleep so it’s all Greek to me. "She’s Lost Control" is next, which I somehow identify despite not knowing "Disorder" five minutes ago. The rest of the set will be originals, the audience chants happy birthday to Oleander. Happy birthday Oleander. They play an original love song, then a song about not remembering who someone is in public. In a previous review of a Ponzi performance I said Oleander wields their instrument like a machine gun, this is true for Pleasant Bus Stop Oleander as well, they are armed and ready to kill. Their final song I heard them play as Ponzi, and yet again, Oleander is a mercenary on the strings, with Liv and Wyatt Wyatt backing them up excellently. Happy birthday Oleander.
In between bands I watch four freshmen from San Diego become acquainted, I hope they stay friends, those little fellas warm my heart. Finally, The Toolsmen take the stage, and make small talk with the audience about Seinfeld. After their first song, another siren, another silence, until we see the long red truck. They're covering 00’s pop punk songs, I let myself bob awkwardly to the music, a new person leans over the window upstairs, people hug each other, and jump in clusters of uncertain post-pubescent ecstasy. Someone in a cowboy hat holds hands with two friends and just lets the music flow through them. They call on the audience to tell them good news, but they don't wait for it, one of their friends got engaged. Another Modern Baseball song. A spontaneous mosh breaks out and the dusty cloud returns for an encore, but then the crowd gives up and just goes back to jumping along. Another siren, a song called "the beers" is up next, uh oh. It’s just an ambulance, a nice change of pace there. The crowd chants along, cellphones raised so they don’t forget. Someone comes on stage, in about an 75 minutes he'll be 21. Happy birthday Sam. "My Own Worst Enemy" plays. I usually hate the song but fuck can these guys rock it. Five dudes squeezed on a suggestion of a stage in an alleyway comes off more authentic to the dirtbag motif. They announce there’s seven minutes until someone can call the cops on us. It’s the last song. Front Bottoms. I see a girl with a wall of blue texts sent to someone she must care about, I see a guy downing a drink in one go, and I see someone of an undetermined gender kicking their legs like they’re the circle jerks guy. Dust rises like the tide and hands are in the air. Encore, three minutes left. We’re gonna go quick they say, We want to see people jump, the crowd obliges. 5…4…3…2…1…. Song ends, it’s eleven, goodnight. Happy birthday Oleander.
People ask me why I like these shows so much, standing alone in crowds of people I’ll never know, despite my severe social anxiety. I won’t know an answer then, but as I write this, I know it’s because I become no one here, I’m just a tent pole taking notes, some people come with friends to bond, others seek one another out, clinging to any connection they can form, but I come to escape the image I set for myself, disguising myself as me, no need to seem interesting, no compulsion to wear my heart on my sleeve, just noise. And I think that’s Seattle. A city of strangers who will never know each other, connecting with every drop of rain hitting the dirty pavement. In a city ravaged by tech bro culture, there's a venue in the U District, where the true citizens of Seattle reclaim her dirty, unkempt, pure form, ruled by dead rockstars and a crushed up, slightly damp can of booze in an alleyway called Martha’s Vineyard.
-Sommer Holloway
www.sommerholloway.net
