Yo La Tengo, Velvet Jones, 4/19
25 April 2010 at 4:25 pm

Let's say someone made you a mix CD one time, and there was this song on it, and you love this song.

Let's say the band that created this song is coming to town.

Let's say the DJ playing prior to the band's performance is a friend of yours, and he puts you on the list.

The scene is set.

You walk--nay, strut, as there are tall, black heels involved, in between two lines, one containing people who have tickets, one containing people who don't. You ask the security guy guarding the intersection of these two lines: "If I'm on the list, do I need to wait in line?" Then you smile, and the velvet rope lifts, and your ID is checked and your wrist is adorned with notification that you can and should be drinking alcohol, even before someone checks if you're actually on the list.

"I'm Morgan," you might say, if you were me, "and I'm on Pav's list."

Unfortunately, there is no such thing as Pav's list outside of your reality, but they write your name on a piece of paper and let you in anyway.

The only thing standing between you and that band is conviction. If you believe it enough, everyone else will, too.

You walk in and say hello to the people you know. You get a drink: Maker's, rocks. There is a philosophy to your show drinking, and that philosophy is: quality, darling, not quantity.

You wander around until someone tells you you can't anymore. You ask where the DJ booth is, and the security guard points you about 5 feet away, to a place you would be able to see if you weren't as short as everyone else is tall.

You say hello to your DJ friend and you wait an hour for the band to go on. There is a couple in front of you, the only two dancing to the Britpop your DJ friend is spinning. "They win at having the most fun," you say to your DJ friend. He agrees. Everyone around them concentrates on staring at nothing. I stare at them and smile. Some people participate; some people ignore; some people observe.

He sets up the milk crates in which he stores a small portion of his vinyl so that, when the band starts, you can be as tall as everyone else is. And you dance as well as you can, barefoot atop perforated plastic, watching this band, wishing the person who had made you that CD was there, watching this beautiful music happen.


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About me
Hi. Morgan, 27, of Santa Barbara, CA. I am a hypocritical admirer of rhetoric (when it is my own) and an observer of literary trends. A secret: I don't take anything very seriously, and that includes myself.