[transmission from... Tyler Sonnichsen]

I went to a Positive Force show on Saturday evening up in Columbia Heights. This was my first full-fledged event in this vein that I’d been to, and appropriately enough, The Evens were headlining, supported by Antelope and the longtime Fugazi bassist Joe Lally doing his pretty good, minimalist solo stuff. It was strange but completely unsurprising sitting on the floor during Lally’s set, seeing all sorts of famous faces wandering in and out of the room. Ian MacKaye hung out by the door down on the floor near stage left, watching the openers and chatting with friends nearby. Mark Anderson, who was the show's chief organizer, popped his head out the door to talk to MacKaye and others every few moments. The thing that really threw me was the cluster of little girls running around at the foot of the stage. The oldest had to have been about five, one of whom belonged to Joe Lally. He pointed her out before playing her favorite song of his. When I saw Mark Jenkins (Anderson’s co-author on Dance of Days) show up with his baby son in his arms, it occurred to me that all these little kids belong to various members of the Dischord family. These were the same people who wrote the songs that shaped dozens of movements, and influenced the independent music industry in ways that no non-internet entity ever will again. (I think that once this guy put it best in print: "Suck it, Pitchfork.")

I was freaking younger than that swarm of kids running around in circles when Revolution Summer happened in 1985 with Rites of Spring and all those bands that existed for about three months but people still talk about. Hell, I hadn’t even turned one before Minor Threat broke up, and that’s the band that MacKaye still gets tagged with, no matter how much praise he gets for Fugazi and The Evens. It was pretty gratifying to see them all still bothering to affect social change despite their rapid ascention to middle age and starting families. The door price was $5, as always, and they encouraged everyone to bring a can of tuna or a box of whole grain cereal for a food drive. And of course, none of the performers were making a penny off of the night.

The whole scene set felt strange enough for me before I spotted Shelby Cinca (ex-Frodus, The Cassettes, etc. etc.) hanging out near the wings with his fiancée. I got a chance to chat with him for a second and say so long, which was nice since he left for Sweden for good on Wednesday. I had to leave for Alexandria right after that to get to the Laughing Lizard.

While I was sitting on the train down there, I started to think about how naïve young pricks like me will always associate the DC music scene with the hardcore shows of the early 80’s, few of those who were central to it twenty-five years ago are horribly nostalgic for those days anymore, despite having every right to be. It's like El-P intoned on Aesop Rock's 'We're Famous:' the most nostalgic cats were the ones who were never part of it. Anderson's ending to Dance of Days rang true: What’s really important is what is happening right now.

Meanwhile, here I was, whining to myself about how I was living too late to experience the heyday of DC punk, while I was on my way to take part in a DC comedy show. While we may take stock in past moments, both experienced and imagined, what’s really important is what we're doing and the changes we are affecting, and we can't forget that. These are the things we may remember with reverence when we're old and having kids of our own.

Alright, thought-pieces out there, the funny will return soon. Or, what I think is funny will return soon. Thanks for reading.

[transmission from... Tyler Sonnichsen]

Before I dig into the topic at hand, let me thank everyone who came out in any way shape or form for the show at the Laughing Lizard on Saturday night. It was solid from start to finish, and we can’t wait to get the next one lined up for May 20th. It will be epic. For now, I’m going to sit and revel in Jeff Maurer’s appearance and his opening of the metal-reference flood gates, as well as forever changing the way that we look at Bennigan’s appetizers. (“Bennigan’s Appetizer or Urban Legend Sex Act? Let’s see- the Irish Haystack; Is that a dish with corned beef and cabbage, or when you cum in a girl’s hair and throw her out onto your lawn?”) Classic stuff. Everyone else had amazing bits, too, but I hadn’t seen Jeff perform before Saturday, and I felt the need to make every last one of our readers uncomfortable. That’s all right, though, because today’s entry is something of a reflection piece.

You see, The Fall have this song entitled “Living Too Late.” In it, singer Mark E. Smith talks about things like “crows feet” engrained on his face. I’m not entirely sure what else he’s getting at, much like the rest of The Fall’s lyrical pantheon, but the title’s central theme hits close to home for me. In terms of me becoming a part of the DC Community, I have had two altogether eye-opening and somewhat depressing experiences in the past six months that made me realize all of the above.

Back in January, I went to a show at the Black Cat that ended just too late to catch the last green line train south to L’Enfant Plaza to make the switch home. Resigned to catch a bus and weave my way through the system until I got back to Arlington, I crossed the street and waited for the 52. While I was standing around, a rickety old cab (with a rickety old driver, this was the complete package) pulled up next to me. Having just left a show, I was still particularly energetic, so I struck up a small conversation with the driver, despite the fact that I didn’t plan on getting in. He started to complain that there was no business to be had, despite the fact that it was Thursday night. He wound up giving me a fare offer to bring me back home that I couldn’t refuse, so I hopped in.

Stanley Warren introduced himself to me, and we began to roll at around 25 mph. At first, I was a bit on edge about how slowly he was driving, but this man was 85 years old, and the stories he began to tell me were without parallel. He had lived in Washington for his entire life, minus a few years spent in Europe as a medic during the War, and his first six months in Philly, having been born there. He told me stories of he and his wife each having to take two jobs to make ends meet and support their family before the civil rights era due to segregation. He explained how and where the city had been split among the whites and blacks in the old days (except for some gentrification and expansion across the Anacostia River, the pattern hasn’t changed much, somewhat unsurprisingly). The only place where people from both races would mingle was The Howard Theater on U Street. The unforgettable big band concerts are things of the distant past, but the building is still there, and he drives by it all the time. Way back when, he and his friends would spend their days washing dishes and such, and they would never forget to set aside the quarter to see The Duke, Glenn Miller, Artie Shaw, Count Basie, or one of a string of others shake the place during any given week-long run.
A quarter. 25 cents. To see Gene Krupa play the drums or swing to The Count during his heyday.
“I even got to dance with Doris Day! This was before the war, before she was a big movie star. I’ve still got her autograph sitting around somewhere,” he shared.

This all staggered me. I was so entranced I barely even noticed as we crossed the Key Bridge into Virginia. I suddenly appreciated the fact that he was driving so slowly. He began going even slower once we were in Arlington. He said he didn’t know Virginia that well, but I could tell that part of it was because he was enjoying relating these stories as much as I was enjoying hearing them.

I tried telling him about all of the great things that have been happening over the past couple of decades, but I didn’t try to hard because no Bad Brains show I’d read about would ever measure up to what he was telling me. ‘What am I going to be telling my grandkids about? How I saw Belle and Sebastian for $30 a few times back in the day? Give me a break.’

Stanley seemed pretty bright and optimistic for a withered eighty-five year old man. He told me how he was eagerly waiting for his oldest son to retire from the DC Police Department so they could head down to Florida for a little while. The second time I got a ride home from him, I came forward and asked if he’d liked to tell some of his stories on camera or on tape. He hesitated.

“I don’t know. I’m really trying to move on from all that. I’m seeing someone new now, and I don’t really want to commit too much time to anything, y’understand?”

At first I was disappointed, but I understood what he meant. He loved relating these stories to a fascinated young guy in his cab, but he didn’t feel like his personal experiences were terribly important or unique in the grand scheme of things.

What I know is that not many of his friends from the old Howard Theater concerts and who ran the DC streets of the 1940’s-50’s are still around to tell these stories, and even fewer are so enthusiastic about what they’ve got lying ahead of them rather than in their tracks. He doesn’t need video or audio to legitimize his legacy; he and everyone who shared his experience have left it all over the place, and I find it unlikely that people like Warren are going to be forgotten when they’re gone, even if they see nothing particularly fascinating about their lives.

To be continued…