The douchey guy in the cheap beige suit was barking into his megaphone so loudly that I couldn’t even hear the wailing guitars and drunken chants coming from inside the fence.
“”I used to be into all that gang activity like violence and gangbanging,”” he shouted unaware of the embarrassing word slip. “”But now I’ve let Christ into my life. Don’t venture into the depths of hell. Get out while you still can.””
Amongst a chorus of “”shut ups,”” the man gave the megaphone to another guy wearing a basketball jersey who continued to preach until he was nudged by a police officer. I turned my face toward the intimidating crowd in front of me and pulled a buzzing phone to my ear.
“”They won’t let anyone into They Might Be Giants because they want another $15,”” my friend screamed into the phone. “”I’m not going to pay any more for this mess.””
I pushed through throes of O’Malley’s fans and drunken sports-goers with ’90s goatees until I finally got inside, and then spent another 10 minutes pushing through hundreds more just to get to Club Congress, where I said I’d meet him.
When I got there, I was met with a myriad of lines and a bouncer who was refusing to let people in. So then I walked over to The District and was turned away again, by my favorite bartender no less. This was getting ridiculous. Everyone was roaring drunk and pushing into each other, the lines were so long that people were pissing on the port-a-potties instead of inside them, and all of the good bands were impossible to see, if there were any. The only music in earshot was the ghetto rap played by a DJ inside a tiny and awkward tattoo shop and a lame rock band in khakis jamming at the Bud Light stage.
Suddenly, the words of those street preachers began to resonate in my mind. Club Crawl wasn’t exactly hell, but more like a purgatory for lost souls who sinned so much during life that they weren’t allowed to see the Love Mound performance yet. Instead, they were forced to wander eternally through the dirt of the former Fourth Avenue Underpass and spend astoundingly long amounts of time in line for a Budweiser. There was no hope.
Alone, severely pissed off and painfully sober, I tried Congress one more time. I think they recognized me from before, because the bouncer winked at me when he finally let me inside the fence, as if that made everything better. But finally I was satisfied. For the first time of the night, I was actually listening to a band.
Mostly Bears was jamming onstage and holding up a statue of the Virgin De Guadalupe.
I liked them. Their sound reminded me of a smart mix between a typical indie rock group and The Mars Volta, with vocals that ironically sounded like a more sinister Brandon Boyd from Incubus. Their dark hymns pierced the night air; the echoing holy cries of singer Brian Lopez, the jangling guitars, the hammering beats of the drum.
There’s something strangely empowering about being alone at a concert, especially a chaotic one like Club Crawl. It’s a feeling of motivated anonymity; it allows you to hear the music all for yourself. To slip in and out of the crowd aesthetic; to own your musical experience.
It almost made the whole Club Crawl experience worth it, until the band finished playing and I encountered the exit line.
