Unlike the rest of the throbbing, breathing, flat-brimmed world, I spent yesterday evening in two parts– first, in a rehearsal just around the corner from the MIddle East, then directly in front of it. There, to the chagrin of the few people trying to enjoy whatever the hell was going on in the Upstairs portion last night, were the saddest jerks in town.
I know what it’s like not getting in to see your favorite musician play, or feeling like no one cares. Sort of. I mean, I saw the Backstreet Boys play on September 10, 2001. Do you know the level of not giving a fuck everyone gave about my Adult large t-shirt the next morning? They gave zero. I got to talk to a few that were willing to talk to a lady in denim overall shorts who smelled like half-baked magical realism. To my surprise, Mac fans weren’t my people– they’re the emerging hip-bro society that are just as quick to quote a deeply-buried lyric from his debut album 2 while offering you a Red solo cup full of jungle juice.
Long story short, they weren’t there for me. They had stood there with their mostly underaged ears pressed tightly to the door for hours, and would remain long after rejecting my offer for, “I don’t know, Peep donuts. They sound gross but I will buy them for you. I am a journalist for Allston Pudding and not a random passerby. It’s okay, I don’t believe me either.” The truth is, they were just as sad as I was for not getting tickets on time, only they were wearing dumber clothing. And so a moment of speculation for the many, the disgraced, the Mac fans who weren’t sweating within an inch of their life at the Middle East Downstairs. Here is their story, based on my (limited) observation.
7PM: Lined up at the Middle East with all the people with tickets. Hoping to sneak in or just charm the guy at the door with my hat. Need to hear Salad Days live. Need.
7:01PM: Need.
8:04PM: Okay, they’re starting to let people in. Playing it extremely cool, even though my boyfriend is six foot four and refuses to stop making out with me. It’s cool. They will not notice.
8:06PM: They totally noticed.
8:12PM: Okay, so we don’t have tickets and we’re outside. That’s cool. At least we’re making out. And we have three whole acts before Mac comes on. A scalper will walk by any minute now…
9:01PM: Friend Jake just texted me that Vundabar is done and Juan Waters is next. No scalpers, just more Mac fans in hats and quietly singing ‘Freaking Out The Neighborhood’ and drinking cans of PBR from their backpacks. Amateur hour. I brought a forty.
9:46 Juan is done. I can near the crowd from here, even with my boyfriend permanently suction-cupped to my neck.
10:09: Amen Dunes is up. Dammit, I really like these guys. Goddamnit. I really do.
10:12: Some weird girl just offered us Peeps donuts. And said she worked for Allston Pudding. Which, considering her atrocious outfit, is almost definitely a lie.
10:14: Boyfriend is getting antsy. Says we can just have sex to “Still Together”, which he attests is “pretty much just as fun.” Seriously considering breaking up with him.
10:16: Because, like, seriously? Everyone knows Mac live is a totally different experience.
10:18: I told him to go home. He’s pissed. Super pissed. Pissed as I am that the one would-be scalper of the night turned out to be a dumb bitch in overalls? NO. Being single will set me free, especially if I can catch Mac on his way out of the Middle East.
10:45: He’s starting. I can hear him. I’m crying. We’re all crying– did I mention there’s twelve other people here? They thought my boyfriend was an asshole, too.
10:54: Mac crowdsurfed, according to very drunk text from Jake. He got to touch his butt. He said it’s unimpressive. I WANT TO BE UNIMPRESSED.
11:11: I wish I was dead.
11:13: Jake just texted me that Mac is hanging from a pipe and management is pissed. I want to be there. I want to be there.
11:40: I bought a goddamn Peeps donut because my life is a disaster. Jesus, Christ, there’s another guy at the Mac sad-sap party. Get out, there’s no room for–
11:41: Oh my God.
11:42: He has a ticket. There’s three songs left in the show and THIS GUY HAS A TICKET.
11:43: I’m in. Just texted my ex to tell him I’m in, and he texted me either a really closeup picture of a tear running down his face or an even closer-up picture of his genitals.
11:44: I’m in the back of the house and I can still see Mac’s gaptooth singing through a Neil Young cover. My mom likes Neil Young. Neil’s a pretty cool name.
11:45: I’m drenched in other people’s sweat, I’m single, I’m almost definitely going to vomit up this Peeps donut in a sea of the two PBRs I chugged, and I only saw one song. Tonight was amazing.
11:46: I wish Mac would spit in my mouth.
If this was actually you, congratulations! You are the new spirit animal of wasted youth. Until then, a simultaneous middle finger and quiet begging for anecdotes from all you lucky bastards that made it through the door.