Nov 15, 2005

"Estrogen Rock"

So, I can't claim to have coined a new phrase - a quick google search tells me others have used it before - but it's still the perfect name for the horror show I witnessed (participated in?) on Friday night.

A friend had a spare ticket to see Liz Phair and when I was offered the ticket I wasn't really listening... I said, "when? Ya, okay." I mean, it was a free ticket. To go out to a bar and see a show. For free. And did I mention it was a free ticket? But I should have asked, "who?" I mean Liz Phair she's one of those chicks with a guitar. I hate shit like that. Actually when I was offered the ticket I thought it was for Fiona Apple - a chick with a piano who I don't mind in spite of myself. I always get those two mixed up along with that folk singer chick from the 90's from Alaska - the one with the snaggle-tooth. Anyway, when I caught a clue that I had just agreed to go see Liz Phair I sighed in resignation and put on my boots. It isn't like I had anything better to do, and I thought, "how bad could it be?"


I went down to the show a little later than usual. Doors were at 8 but I figured if I got there around 10 I'd at least miss the opening band. I should have taken it as a bad sign that I passed a group of people leaving on my way up the stairs to the club. At the top of the stairs I checked my coat and made my way out to the dance floor. Not to dance, to stand around like I always do. First of all, the Commodore was the most empty I've ever seen it. And the crowd... oh man.

Not being a big Liz Phair fan myself, I was a bit confused by the social dynamic happening in the club. The chick on stage (Liz) was wearing something skimpy in a spaghetti strap and had her long blonde hair tousled in a Heather Locklearesque flirt. My confusion stemmed from the apparent disparity between the bottle-blonde nymph on stage and her unfortunate fans. There were three kinds of people at the show: desperate, greasy looking beta males wolfing around the margins of the crowd, ernest frumpy alt-rock females who were probably hot (sorry, hawt) in high school and ... aren't any more. Oh, and me. I was there too. I watched as two girls with slouchy shoulders held hands and nodded knowingly to asinine lyrics. I could just picture them eight years ago, locked in their bedrooms, sulking on their beds, yelling at mom through a locked door, "LEAVE ME ALONE, I HATE YOU!" turn up the music and carefully copy angry lyrics into the back few pages of their diary. This vision gave me vertigo which was compounded when another girl skipped/danced/spasmed past me like a marionette in the hands of a puppeteer with a taste for absinthe.

More people started to leave. The skippy/dancey girl bobbed past me again but was now shadowed by an unattractive "sensitive" and hungry looking dude inexplicably dressed in gortex.

There was so much estrogen in that place I could taste it at the back of my throat. I always think it should smell like patchouli - earthy and raw but in high concentrations it actually smells like Loves Baby Soft - sweet, powdery, clingy, like baby-powder and sex and desperation.

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