beat down by suburban folkies

The most interesting bit from the weekend was the slap down administered by the doorman at Iota in Clarendon. Christine and I headed out on Saturday night to meet up with Sue (a friend of mine from days of yore in England) and see Erin McKeown’s show. This was to become our third failed attempt to see Erin over the years; I consider her our Moby Dick. Iota is first-come, pay at the door kinda joint and I knew that one day this might hamper my entertainment battle plans. Normally I’m maybe a bit too convinced that artists I like must certainly be loved by hundreds of thousands of fans throughout the greater D.C. area…and I know, JUST KNOW, that there will be hundreds of patrons rushing the doors of the small Northern Virginia and D.C. venues. I know I’ve got to get there early in order to establish my land stake. But what really happens is that I find myself sitting at the bar with the one other guy in the venue (who looks a lot like me!?!) when the opening act blows into the mic stand and “welcomes the crowd”. Eventually the crowd might climb into the dozens of fans but that normally only happens after the opening act has finished and they're enjoying the free pasta meal at the bar. So anyway, Sue is outside on the sidewalk (not on the sidewalk in a hurt or just mugged way, just standing…) when we arrive and gives us the news that the show’s sold out and even the girls can’t talk their way across the musical threshold. Damn. Burned. Shit. I feel bad for Sue because she’s driven in from another state (is Maryland really another state?) at my recommendation, and because Christine and I have been foiled again. I peer through the window and see the opening act on stage, guitar in hand, singing some crappy song. I realize that my small consolation is twofold; first, Erin is doing well if folks are showing up that early for her shows – early enough to stand through any opening act. Secondly, I’ve seen the opening act when he toured with Jolie Holland…and he’s painful to listen to for 8-10 songs; even one song. At least those standing in ‘our’ spots will suffer for their misdeeds.

We wandered up the street, found a ‘spanish’ place, had a round of drinks, and caught up on the past. After hanging out with these two go-getters I feel like I need a better profession. What with the soon-to-be lawyer and the chemist with the soon-to-have Ph.D., it can be daunting. Maybe I’ll start writing crappy songs, playing guitar, and getting free ‘band’ meals while I open for more talented touring performers. At least I’d get in the show. But I'm not bitter.