Last night was a refreshing pause in the rhythm of shows and school and work I've come to expect from Nashville. We trekked our way over to Belmont, six-pack in hand, for whatever basement Meemaw and Jeff had in store for us.
My friend Patrick said it best: "This scene is real. The kid in the fedora is not being ironic."
That's the thing. Neither is the guy with the mohawk. Or the girl with her nose triple-pierced. Or the kid in khakis. Or my sister, trendy in her yellow tights. We're crammed together, shoulder to shoulder, peering between limbs for a glimpse of the band, who are squeezed off in a corner in a tight triangle, facing one another, singing without mics, dancing into us. When the live music halts, someone yells 'Put on the house music!' and dance tunes come eeking out of a boombox dangling from the ceiling. Beer is passed from hand to hand. Kids crouch on the stairs, singing along.
Nevermind the fact that the backyard is a junkyard of bicycle parts and livingroom furniture. Nevermind the mud puddle masquerading as the bottom step. Nevermind the guy who screams he smells like "pennies!" but really reeks sweat onto all of us.
Meemaw's drummer, Jessica, plays with a rhythmic calm that's almost unnerving. She's suave to Daniel's enthusiastic belting. Those of us who knew the words sang along, those who didn't danced along anyway. The good mood was contagious. Jeff was equally phenomenal.
It was just fun. Unpretentious fun. It's a scene that, if you're not the one trying to be ironic, you'll fit right into. This is what Nashville music should be about.
And Daniel did promise me that they'll come by the station sometime, so stay tuned for an upcoming Meemaw in-station soon!
Also, here's a bonus treat:
Meemaw, "Clubber Lang"
No comments:
Post a Comment