🫖 Hello, tea drinkers of the world. Today, I foray into the world of concert reportage. Anyone remember You Missed It? What happened to that guy lol. Below, I discuss two performers I saw recently with my friend Evana. It’s a little different from what I usually do—I often feel like a lame spy when I try to write a ‘scene report’ of any sort. Regardless, the spirit moved me and I hope you like it! If you made it here without subscribing, you may do so below. 🫖
May Rio at Stone Circle Theatre on Saturday 10/28
Evana and I have been on a low-to-no-spending kick. We’ve been forgoing meals out for dinner at home. Skipping $40 Ubers for sleepovers in Bed Stuy or the East Village where we go to bed giggling and wake up giggling.
Saturday night, and as usual, I was running late. I had spent the day in a car with a friend on an excursion to Connecticut that ran into the early evening when we said we’d be back in the mid-afternoon. We failed to account for traffic. There’s always traffic.
I didn’t have time to shower, so I mopped up to the best of my abilities and put on an outfit that attempted to emulate a skanky Julie Delpy. Evana was making a tajine and we had planned to eat at her place before making our way to a concert billing Lipsticism, May Rio and Chanel Beads. I worried briefly about being ridiculously late to the concert before remembering the general ridiculous lateness of small concerts. The tickets were only $17—any amount of music heard would feel like getting our money’s worth. I harvested a plastic bag from the bag of plastic bags under my kitchen sink, grabbed a cold bottle of amber wine left from a party, and high-tailed to Brooklyn.
When I arrived, my friend’s home was warm and cinnamony. We dished up and swallowed wine as quickly as possible. Having heard that the venue wouldn’t sell alcohol, we decanted the rest of the bottle into a pink plastic Nalgene, which we drank on the bus to Ridgewood like a pair of eighth graders.
We got off the bus and confidently overshot the venue by a block. We failed to realize that Stone Circle Theater wasn’t a theater. It was a church. We turned around and navigated a welcome committee of smoking teenagers, which reminded us that it was an all-ages show. This fact made my palms sweaty just in time for two smiling men to apply purple paper to our wrists and tell us that our timing was perfect—the music was just starting.
Up some stairs and through the doors. We ditched our jackets on a pew that was pushed into a corner for standing room. Behind the altar-stage, there was a stained glass portrait of Jesus Christ as shepherd. The space was a sparse cavern at this point. The emptiness was slowly filling with a miasma of machine-made fog that got caught in our throats. We made our way to the gender-neutral bathroom. There were bowls of condoms—the undignified kind, such as flavored and female—which I suppose were there in case anyone wanted to have safe sex in the confessionals. Presbyterian slay or whatever.
Neither of us had heard of Lipticism, and while we’ve both been fans of Chanel Beads since we saw them open for Strange Ranger in June (and I saw them open for Colleen in September), we’ve pretty much caught the drift by now. That night, May Rio was the one act we really wanted to see.
During Lipsticism’s set, we began to feel sinisterly sober, so we went to the orange plastic water cooler to swallow a microdose of mushrooms. Evana spotted a Tinder match from months ago standing near the front. I shifted uneasily at the prospect of ghosts of Bushwick past. The first performer finished and we paced around, people-watching, taking selfies and drinking cup upon waxy cup of iced water.
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For the last few months, I’ve been listening to May Rio’s records a lot—French Bath from this year and Easy Bammer from 2021. While I really like her lyrics and voice, I didn’t know how I would feel seeing her live. May Rio is exactly the type of person who has the potential to make me furiously jealous. Gamine and waifish, with a twee haircut that falls just right. Clouted in a downtown way, with a few thousand followers. Twenty-something, 5’4” with “perfect baby girl” vibes. Talented and gaining recognition. Some people ignite a petty little rage in my heart. For this, I am not proud.
She took the stage wearing a Phoebe-from-Friends//art teacher circa 2004 outfit that she somehow made incredibly chic—a maxi skirt, a long-sleeve green tee and fleecy vest. She was joined by folks on keyboard, guitar, cello, and the occasional saxophone. While her recorded albums are quite poppy, this arrangement promised a jazzy, orchestral flair.
May’s voice was objectively flawless and she was completely charming on stage. She sang in a way that sometimes rang like a clear, little bell, and sometimes dripped with juice. Coquettish and devastating and wise. Her songs are full of simple yet surprising imagery.
I never told you that you’re just like aspartame.
Sweet in a sickly way.
Found out you’re bad for me late. (1)
Loyalty is more for dogs than friends. (2)
Slow it down. Things take time to live out. You might get it wrong. Welcome in the doubt. (3)
Before long, my internal ice melted and I breathed a sigh of relief. Spiritually, May Rio felt like a theater kid. A hot theater kid. The absolute star of the play. But, still, a theater kid. She exuded an admirable natural stage presence. She moved with intentionality. She unflinchingly gazed into the eye of the audience. But, at times, it was this very perfection that made my mind wander. It was hard to be completely present. I could feel that I was standing in a church that wasn’t quite dark enough to dance, full of very young people who were very conscious of looking very cool. It was hard to reach an altered state, even if the music had the ingredients of the divine.
I enjoyed her performance most when she stood still, microphone in its stand, steadily beating her hand against her leg because she couldn’t resist some motion. She closed her eyes and appeared to be truly focused, consumed. What can I say? Now I’ve got time. Long sunny days. Sleeping at night. (3) There is a lot of truth in her music and I am intrigued to see where she goes next.
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As soon as she finished, Evana and I clapped loudly and disappeared into our second plans of the night. We returned to Bed Stuy, where we got sent to party jail for being weird. Two clowns with painted cheeks in a room full of journalists. We teased tall Europeans, declared love for former flings, and made a PSA the moment daylight savings took effect. We drank an evil combination of gin, Fernet and beer. On our way out, we walked two blocks in the wrong direction before relenting to a $12 Uber that took us half a mile. We went to bed giggling and woke up giggling.
Current Joys at Le Poisson Rouge on Wednesday 11/8
On Tuesday, I texted Evana, we should try not drinking on Wed. Once again, a theme—burnout from a season of excesses. We threw around ideas of how to kill time between work and the show. We considered cappuccinos at Caffe Reggio, or something nonalcoholic at a bar. As always, we planned on no plan. To follow our hearts. Or, more likely, our poisoned brains and stomachs.
Wednesday came and work was exasperating, especially for Evana. I returned home from the office to quickly wolf down a dinner of leftovers before taking the M8 across town. I called Evana and we immediately caved on our plan to not drink. I suggested the only place I find tolerable in the West Village—a dark spot on MacDougal that somehow manages to eschew the usual street traffic of travelers, TikTokkers and teenagers.
We had a beer and complained about life, romance and lack. We felt antsy and vacillated between getting another drink and arriving punctually to catch the opener that neither of us knew. We decided on overpriced cocktails at a nearby wine spot that was packed to fire code with Hinge dates that actually seemed to be going pretty well. We clattered down our two credit cards and Evana expressed remorse that her cocktail costed two dollars more than mine. Friendship tax, I said with a dismissive wave.
By the time we descended the stairs at Le Poisson Rouge (branded LPR), the anxious high frequency that we had been emitting earlier fizzled down to a warm, sleepy hum. I made my way to the gender-neutral bathroom and warned a person in the stall next to me that it was out of toilet paper. I handed an outstretched hand a little wad of four squares, and then another when we all realized that the stall two doors down was out, too.
Evana and I settled into the crowd with perfect timing. It was the beat between acts. The collective breath before the air shifts.
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I suppose this offers a moment to expound upon my feelings about the band we were going to see. Current Joys, the (er) current musical project of Nick Rattigan, was seminal in discovering my own musical preferences. My mother always had impeccable music taste—the Jam, Pavement, the Smiths, the Cure—which made it difficult to make a rebellious teenage fuss about how she didn’t understand and this was real music and all that. She had a fabulous record collection which I pilfered like a raccoon. But, I needed a little autonomy. Something that was mine and not hers. A tune of one’s own (Jesus).
It turns out all I needed was the internet and the drive to listen to lo-fi indie rock that was cool by virtue of the fact that no one was listening to it. Which is to say, Bandcamp. I also had my friend Julia, who had a knack for finding music that felt difficult upon first listen, interesting upon second, and delicious upon third. I’ll never forget the first time I heard the sound of Angel Olsen’s haunted, wavery croon through the speakers of Julia’s car from a CD she burned for a camping trip to Ojai. If all the trouble in my heart would only mend. I lost my dream. I lost my reason all again. (4) Without Julia, would I know Mitski? Unknown Mortal Orchestra? Oberhofer? Parquet Courts?
By junior year of high school, we would scout out all-ages concerts, where we would stand gothly, bum an occasional American Spirit and not drink any alcohol for fear of braving whatever cocktail of Los Angeles freeways we would need to navigate to get home. Straight-edge punk shit. We went to the Smell. We went to Echo Plex. We were fan girls. Burger Girls. We were often one snip away from having TERF bangs. We had crushes on every lead singer. We bought merch. We abstained from taking photos or videos at concerts because that was too basic. We were 17 and it was great.
The summer after graduating high school, Julia took me to a concert—it was Slow Hollows with Nick Rattigan opening (I honestly don’t remember if he was performing as Surf Curse or Current Joys at that point). Back then, I was a punctual concertgoer. Back then, I had an open heart for opening acts. We bounced around rapturously to the simple perfection of a song where Rattigan wails, I listened to The Cure, I listened to The Cure, I listened to The Cure and then I cried. (5) That’s life, baby! After that show, I added Slow Hollows and Current Joys songs to a playlist that would carry me through my first semester of college.
For me, these bands captured so perfectly what it was to be young and sad in 2015. This is, naturally, because they were so young and so sad. If we were 17, the lead singer of Slow Hollows was probably no more than a breath over 18. Nick Rattigan had an older brother energy—five years our senior, which felt significant at the time but now feels laughably small for our outsized admiration. It was both intimidating and inspiring to see artists our age doing something. Rambling of a dying adolescence.
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By September 2023, I hadn’t given Current Joys more than a passing thought in years. I was surprised and delighted to come across their new record, LOVE + POP, and fell in love anew. 17 again. I proselytized to anyone who would listen. Have you heard the new album?
LOVE + POP is nostalgic—it features the aforementioned Slow Hollows, it samples a track from their 2013 record, and retains a lot of the familiar Current Joys character—but Rattigan’s sound has managed to evolve into something that feels very right now. It’s tacky and born yesterday and therefore somehow timeless. It’s unwieldy and lonely and full of bodily fluids and unfettered yearning.
You got blood on your poor hands. (6)
Smoking like a Gemini. (7)
Step into my mouth as I look into your soul. (8)
I just wanna cry like I was twenty-five. (9)
Cry, baby, and take that pain you hide
And spit it right into my mouth
I'll swallow it whole and I'll take you out (10)
All of this is to say that I was very excited to see him perform live, seven years after my first time.
At LPR, the house lights shifted to red. Evana and I were standing near the back with a pretty clear view of the stage. Nick Rattigan emerged on stage looking like a person who just spent the last two hours eating pussy with a sink full of dirty dishes. After some brief tuning, the band opened with the dreamy sounds of My Shadow Life before breaking down into the rollicking top of their new record—Club lights, we fight every night. Baby, I don't wanna do that. (11) A mosh pit broke out near the stage, a fact which made me gleefully giggle. Despite his unkempt vibe, Rattigan has an unmistakable magnetism onstage. I typed Incel bf on my notes app and flashed it to Evana with a grin.
Aside from a few technical difficulties, a broken guitar string and a shadow of vocal hoarseness on Rattigan’s part, the concert was perfect in my eyes. All the hits, some deep cuts, and some fun interstitial anecdotes about Lil Yachty and various audio tracks lost to the sands of time. The crowd was pumped. At one point, Rattigan prefaced a song by saying, this one is for the REAL heads. It was undoubtedly a room full of the realest heads. The show felt long, but I wasn’t checking the time. After it ended, I realized that it was a full two hours of music.
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The last few months have felt like I’ve needed an exorcism. It turns out all I really needed was a good fucking concert. Live music is surely spiritual. The interplay between light and darkness and clarity and smoke and silence and noise and physicality and disembodiment where the usual boundaries are wavy and you can knock into other bodies with love and hate and cry your broken, full heart out.
But, I find that achieving this un-self-consciousness is rare. I’ve been to so many shows that were games of seeing and being seen. Back in my early concert days, I recall putting up a disaffected armor to prove that I belonged there as much as anyone else. Twenty-five years old, at an all-ages show in the West Village standing next to my best friend on a Wednesday, I had absolutely nothing to prove. I forgot about my body and danced ridiculously and sang and cried. I let the music ripple through me and felt grateful for every lyric that has plucked my heartstrings and every rhythm that has rattled my bones.
Toward the end of the night, the band performed a song called Kids. I looked around at the crowd. Younger than me now. Older than I used to be. It was unbelievably touching and made me realize that I’ve been a rancid bitch for not wanting to go to all-ages shows for petty annoyance at being surrounded by younger people. Being surrounded by younger people is a goddamn gift. So, listen up you kids… (12)
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The week after the show was a cycle of rumination and procrastination. I wanted to write but instead, I kept listening to Current Joys. I scrolled through Nick Rattigan’s Instagram to see if he had changed since 2015. On Saturday, Evana and I worked at a cafe in East Williamsburg. She finished her novel and I rummaged through eBay for vintage concert posters that I don’t have the disposable income to buy. That night, I left my laptop at her apartment because we were going out in Brooklyn and I didn’t want to lug it around. She could bring it to the East Village on Sunday, as she had brunch plans with friends anyways.
I woke up in the morning with a vague memory of a Nick Rattigan sex dream. Around noon, I arrived at B&H Dairy—a well-loved narrow hallway of a kosher diner. I crab-walked to the back to meet Evana and two friends. She pointed me to a tote bag with my laptop and various other items I had strewn around her house over the last couple of weeks. I sat briefly to chat and was rewarded with a bite of a chocolate muffin. I excused myself for intruding on their meal, and gingerly navigated my way to the door, attempting not to butcher knishes with my tote bag, bump counter-sitters with my ass, or knock tuna melts with my elbows.
The entryway was a bottleneck of feeble apologies. I was briefly trapped but eventually emerged into the cold bright day. I glanced at the group that was entering the restaurant as I exited. It was Nick Rattigan and some friends. I almost said something, but instead walked away with a silent smile in my eyes.
‘Cause the way I am keeps changing
And I just need a little time.
’Cause the sentiment of feelings
Lead to ordinary lives and I want mine. (13)
Glossary of songs referenced
(1) Aspartame (2) NYC UMTs (3) Butter (4) Unfucktheworld (5) New Flesh (6) Walk Away as the Door Slams (7) LOVE + POP (8-9) bb put on deftones (10) Moon Sickness (11) Walk Away as the Door Slams (again) (12) Kids (13) Way Out Here
🫖 That is all! If you resonated with any of this, feel free to like, comment or share with a friend. If you despised it, that’s welcome feedback, too. Until next time, CM. 🫖