07.20.18: Glassjaw
Glassjaw at the Observatory in Santa Ana, CA. 7.20.18.
You could smell the waft of beer roaming throughout the venue, the sweat, the warmth of the air on a hot, July evening. Every thing was compacted, with barely any room to move limbs but every one, myself included, were trying to take pictures of the band on their tiny, mobile devices, in a bid to capture the moment they didn't want to forget but will distinctly remember for years to come.
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I had the luxury of seeing one of my favorite bands, Glassjaw, perform for a third time. Due to the fact Glassjaw are outliers in their genre, and albeit not the easiest band to get into, I ended up going to this show, as I have done in the past, alone.
But it was okay.
I'm accustomed to going to concerts alone. Seeing movies by myself. Enjoying a good plate of pasta by my lonesome. Indulging in a refreshing craft beer on my own. I'm hardly adverse to doing things by myself because I enjoy the moments where I can be truly on my own, with my thoughts. Then there's the other aspect of arriving and leaving at your own accord. The only downside to attending a concert on your own is the amount of downtime between sets where you have nothing or no one to keep you company. The past two concerts I went to I was spoiled to be in good company. This time the only thing keeping me occupied was my phone, my thoughts, the eclectic playlist chosen by the venue, and the colorful crowd standing in the middle of a dark room.
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My heart rate increased when I spotted the guitarist, Justin Beck, come out briefly to fetch something for his guitar as the roadies were putting together the drum kit. The time was nearing for the band to embark the stage, blasting my ears with noisy, hardcore goodness.
I needed this--The music. The energy. The distraction.
The lights went down. The music stopped. The fog machine geared up. The crowd roared. A lone drunk man yelled out, "FUCK YEAH, PALUMBO!" The stage lights turned on and BAM! The band jammed into the last track off their latest record Material Control called "Cut and Run". The lead singer, Daryl Palumbo, was stoic at his mic stand, which is an unfamiliar thing for me to see at a Glassjaw show. If anything, he's bouncing off the walls from the start. But then I had to remember, he's not in his twenties anymore--in fact, he's embarking his forties. I'm months away from my thirtieth birthday, standing in a spot that's closest to the stage but furthest away from the mosh pit because I am way too old to be dealing with flailing limbs hitting my face, stage divers kicking me in the head, and drunk girls waiting for the perfect moment to flash their tits to the band. So I cut him some slack.
What he lacked in movement, he made up in energy, which slowly built throughout the course of the evening. He showcased his dad-dance moves, letting the music swell in and out of his lanky body, letting the whole world see a musical exorcism take place. It had been a long time since I had seen something that erotic.
The funniest point of the night was in mid set. Daryl had spilt his IPA on the stage, trying desperately to wipe up the mess in between songs using a t-shirt. When it was time to start up again, the trail of liquid that wasn't properly absorbed through a Jersey Knit shirt glistened on the stage as Daryl stayed to the furthest stage right. A roadie ran up, trying to slickly wipe up the trace amounts behind Daryl as he was screaming into the microphone. It's better than say Daryl slipping on the stage horrifically. Or being electrocuted.
As I have started slinking into my older years, attending concerts has been more of a laid back experience. I don't necessarily have to know every lyric or song for me to enjoy myself. It's no longer a requirement to wait for an hour for my band to come out, in hopes to meet the members of the band, for it to be a good show. The need to be as close to the stage as possible is now an avoidance all together. I have turned into one of those hipster scums who stand in the back, bobbing their head, taking an occasional picture.
That mentality got thrown out the window quickly during this show. I felt like I was sixteen all over again, screaming along to every song I had sung along to, alone, in my room, when I was an angsty, heartbroken, teen girl trying to figure out this wonderful thing called Life. My head bobbing had been traded in for head banging, moving my head with such ferocity that my nicely made up bun had been quickly destroyed, metamorphosing into a messy pony tail. I'm sure I whipped anyone within two feet of me with my thick locks.
The last song of the night was "Siberian Kiss"--a classic Glassjaw song that everyone in the venue could sink their teeth into. There was nothing more exhilarating than yelling "I'll keep you jealously to myself" in a dark room, pretending that the only people who could hear me were the members of the band.
And like that, the show was over. No banter, small talk, a simple "Thank you, good night" were the most Daryl had said the whole evening. It matched their East Coast mentality, trimming any unnecessary fat to provide a solid set of music, nothing more. I couldn't have asked for anything better.