Sleater-Kinney played The Anthem in Washington D.C. two days after my 42nd birthday, with two months left in 2019. Once live concert fiends, Trick and I were reduced (largely by choice) to a couple shows a year, maybe, for most of the past decade. 2020 arrived, and reduction became the order of the day. While no one likes being told what to do, sometimes it's just best. Developing agoraphobia isn't best, nor is gaining weight, but staying home and upright and alive is.
The concert experience seemed like a relic of a bygone era. The driving, the waiting, the babbling, the drinking, the sweating, the aching, the clapping, the yelling, the connection...something we used to do, like eating in a restaurant or attending a baseball game. Money and energy were treasures to be saved up for nights in crimson fleece.
The night of 3/15/2022 passed the feel test.
Because Kim G. is the hero.
Because you can't spell "risking Covid" without "Kim G." (Just erase half of the m.)
***
My body showed no signs of future trouble as I slipped into faux leather leggings and fitted Snoopy tee, de-wrinkled for the occasion. Over the previous ten hours, I'd treated it well enough--coffee, water, homemade breakfast muffin. There was an inadvertent inhalation of perfume, but it's expected I'll always allow a baserunner or two.
Twenty years after our first trip to the 9:30 Club, the changes along the route are gradual and abrupt in unequal measure. Boarded-up storefronts and litter-strewn sidewalks sit across from signs announcing the imminent construction of luxury condos. A ratty convenience store at one end of this block, a pristine Safeway at one end of that block. Gentrification hovers 'round Georgia Avenue like a heaving storm cloud taking up two-thirds of the sky. At least Wonder Chicken is still at the intersection of Georgia and Rittenhouse. Will I ever sample its wares? Likely not. Better to appreciate from afar, like a would-be lover betrothed to another.
Pedestrian traffic at the six o'clock hour is steady and smart; vehicular traffic, not so much.
The area around the 9:30 Club has undergone quite a bit of change in those twenty years, as well. The parking lot has moved a few blocks north, across from Banneker Recreation Center. There are folks in the bleachers, folks running the track, and one guy walking the track at a pace slower than that maintained by Trick and I as we head south to the club, past a yoga studio, past parking garages, past Howard Plaza Towers, on and on until the dingy comforts of cracked sidewalk and amateur graffiti signal our destination.
We entered the venue mere minutes after doors opened at seven. The merch table offered a few shirts and vinyl of No Home Record, the masterpiece Kim Gordon was finally touring behind, three years after its release. A barrier separating spectator from stage beckoned moreso, especially the empty space just to right of center. The mask mandate in the District was lifted at the beginning of March, but all of the staff and at least half of the crowd wore some form of face covering. (Trick and I were the only ones rocking N95s that I saw.)
I took my first chocolate-y, caramel-y, cereal-y sip of Murphy's Irish Stout at 7:15 and took my final sip at 10:30, right after the lights went up for good. Now tell me who the Sonic Nurse is?
We scanned the older-skewing crowd behind us and amused ourselves guessing a person's favorite Sonic Youth album based on the band shirt they wore. White VU and Nico tee? EVOL. Black VU and Nico tee? Sister. Pixies shirt, clearly Dirty. Korn? Rather Ripped.
Bill Nace took the stage at 8:30, seated six feet from a drum set placed to the far left of the stage (first time I've ever seen such). If you've ever wondered about the testimony of the Gods and Goddesses of Atari if ever called upon in the purely hypothetical case of Todd Rogers vs. The Gaming Universe...if you've even half-considered the audible reckoning of C-tier deities under oath...if you've ever craved the sensation of thunderous reprimand for shunning simple mathematics, overlooking obvious clues, and besmirching the good name of Wabbit, well, the Gods and Goddesses of Atari testified on Tuesday night. Through Bill Nace, who may or may not have ever played a video game, the Gods and Goddesses of Atari unleashed forty years of well-oiled wrath. Onlookers drooped and drooled, choked and staggered--and justice was done.
Kim and her three partners in crime took the stage--friendly, wary--at 9:30. A music stand blocked our view of the grand dame somewhat, meaning Trick would capture only clips and pics on his phone, rather than video of a full song. The set up was otherwise fantastic, with plenty of space between band members. Kim moved frequently and wisely. A month shy of 69, stunning in dress shirt, shorts and sensible shoes, her power stemmed from her essential vulnerability. She's fragile and dangerous in the manner of glass, although it's easy for the audience to just marvel at the illusion of tesserae.
Ten songs (the entirety of No Home Record, and the single "Grass Jeans") doesn't sound like much for a concert, but in this case it constituted the ideal set. Selecting highlights is like choosing a favorite child, or at least it would be if I had, or even liked, children. The run of "Air BNB," "Paprika Pony," and "Murdered Out" was pretty wham-bam-goddamn, and I'll now always associate the first of that three with Alex Ovechkin scoring his historic 767th career goal. The encore of "Hungry Baby" and "Grass Jeans" fed and clothed us in joyful noise. If insight seems anathema to the Kim Gordon creative mission (I read Girl In A Band with trembling hands, sure that at any second the book would vanish from my grasp before I finished the final page), onslaught fills the gap nicely.
"That was Kim Gordon! That was Kim fucking Gordon!"
The young woman behind us spoke for me. She let out my every suppressed scream, my every quelled imprecation. The concert experience still means something to me.
It always will.
