So I'm standing in the middle of a crowded basement apartment in the Logan Circle area of Washington, DC getting a serious contact high and waiting to see a folky musician whom my best friend loves named Radical Face (the musician, not my friend). Scattered around the room is some of the best people watching I have ever seen: 20-year-old emo boys who love each other more than they love their annoyed girlfriends, check. High-fiving frat boy wearing a backwards Red Sox cap polishing off a bottle of Jim Beam, check. 60-year-old black guy smoking a joint in the corner, check. Beatnik dude who could have been an extra at that party in Annie Hall where Woody Allen meets all those weirdo Hollywood producers, check. And who can forget the group of high school kids who came with their mom who is pretending not to be totally freaked out by everything going on around her, um, check. The whole vibe alternates between adorably sweet and cult-meeting creepy.
While we wait for Radical Face to take the stage (and by stage I mean a spot on the stained carpet by the wall) we watch the three opening bands perform. The first is just a guy who can't sing and makes Daniel Johnston look like a good guitar player. The next performance is by Tree River which features the guy who couldn't sing on drums and is led by a guy who really can sing. I'm totally into Tree River except for the fact that the guy who couldn't sing can't really drum either. The final band to come on is the annoyingly-named Snow Baby. Snow Baby are as precious as they sounds and we all have to be quiet to hear them. Seriously, we have to be quiet, the guy who owns the basement is yelling at us to shut up and everyone is shushing everyone else. It's like being in a room full of pissed off librarians. Snow Baby is incredibly talented and incredibly derivative. Each moment of their music evokes either Grizzly Bear, Fleet Foxes, Le Loup or Animal Collective. I want to like them but I don't understand how it is that Snow Baby could afford electronic equipment that makes bug and animal sounds but not microphones.
After Snow Baby finish their set the guy who owns the basement takes the microphone and tells us how awesome he is and reminds us over and over that this is in fact his kick-ass basement where this show is happening. He introduces Radical Face and when Radical Face walks up to the microphone, instead of moving out of the way, he tells us how awesome his basement party is a little more.
Radical Face, a Floridian by birth has just made it back from SXSW in Austin and has an Amish beard covering his radical face. He warns us before the show starts that he's been sick and his voice isn't what it should be before launching into his set. Radical Face's music is eclectic - part acoustic confessional, part Postal Service laptop inspired beats and bleeps. He tells the crowd (numbering around 100 at this point) that he gets a lot of shit for the laptop but that it's cheaper than a band. While I'm digging his music, it's hard not to agree with the people who give him shit about using a computer. When I see live music I want it to be live and that's why Radical Face is at his best when he is joined by his drummer and the computer functions as atmosphere rather than leading instrument. The best moment of the night is when Radical Face breaks out his song "Welcome Home" which sends the crowd who all seem to know every song in his repertoire as it is, into a frenzy. The song has a beautiful and soaring chorus of 'ahhhs,' which the entire basement sings in unison. It is a gorgeous moment that breaks through all of my cynicism. The Red Sox guy is high-fiving everyone in sight, the emo boys are hugging each other, the high school kids' chaperon is smiling. It is a moment that transcends the night and carries me out of the basement on a literal high-note. Sure, I need to shower the smell of smoke off of my body and pray my days of hanging out with college students in basements are now officially over forever, but for a moment all is well and as it should be, the way only good music can make it. Then the guy who owns the place starts congratulating himself again and it's time to leave.
