Cantab, 3.7.09

Cameraphone Photo: "Versus the Empties"

Best Cantab night yet. We witnessed a protracted physical fight between woman and man, which involved the much shorter female throwing a drink at the male, then trying to claw the male's shirt apart. The male willingly and aggressively fought back, like a total piece of shit...during "Love Train," no less.

The band was ON tonight, and I don't think I've ever seen them turn in a finer performance. Diane Blue's harmonica solos were earth-shattering. The Couper brothers played like they hadn't played the same show every weekend for the past X years. Candy was not fucking around, and never hit a bad note.

But Bruce the Goose, the formidable sax player, stole the show with his ability to make everything and anything better with the breathy blow of his horn.

I went into the bathroom to take a piss. Bruce the Goose entered behind me. The toilet was occupied, and the urinal was free. I conceded my turn to Bruce. "You can have my turn," I said, and began to exit. "You're a fucking monster on that thing." Bruce the Goose nodded as if he expected this, walked by me, looked at the sink, and looked back at me.

"Dude, someone fuckin' yakked in the sink," was all he said.

Warren the bartender was true to his nature. Even though we tried to avoid him, he managed to find me and act like a complete scumbag. The next time I entered the bathroom, I found him there, taking a piss. He looked at me with his beady eyes, while still pissing, and said, "You can't wait outside, you fucking asshole?" He shook his head and made a clicking sound with his fat, fat lips. "Now I have to go to the kitchen to wash my hands, you fucking asshole."

I looked him dead in the eyes and said, "You're a negative person." He sulked off, and I hope he washed his hands.

Out in the street, it was a party in Central. No police this time. As is often the case in Boston, no one met anyone, and everyone went home with the people they came with. Frat boys returned to talking about playing Halo all day. Girls ushered girls into cabs and left immediately.

We ran into Bruce the Goose again, and I mentioned something about being a musician. He said to come to the open mic he hosts near Faneuil and handed me a crumpled flyer from his pocket. I said something in resoponse.

"Just bring your shit," he said, and walked off.

Andrew greeted random people on the street. We could have fought some guys from Brazil, but they were actually friendly and we alternatingly traded turns for pizza at Hi-Fi. I declared war on the hoarders of the hot pepper and the parmesan, taking their shit and telling them that this is how it works in the city.

Outside, some african-americans were giving an asian american a hard time. "I'm a grown-ass man. I'll slap you with a grown-ass hand," said the young-looking "thirty-six year old" af-am to the marauding asian who kept telling him that he didn't mean any disrespect by calling him "boy."

A much larger african-american took the-asian american aside and told him: "You don't say boy, man. You don't say boy,man."

Boys and men and all the girls are all gone. A cab offered to take us home, so home we went.

I Will Cantab No More Forever.

The story begins with promise.

The story ends with standing stranded in the pouring rain fourteen months later.

Saturday Nights at the Cantab Lounge

I've drunkenly described the Cantab Lounge in Central Square as a "Noah's Ark of humanity," where on a weekend night you'll see one of every type of human imaginable, except for college students (thankfully, the whole 21-plus thing tends to keep them away). You'll see the crazy African-American lady in an Indian headdress with Bluetooth headset. You'll see two short, gray-topped men in black sport coats--the identical twins who play bass and drums in the Fatback Band. You'll hear many heavy townie accents, and you'll usually see quasi-hipsters embarrassing themselves.

Walking into the upstairs bar, you're greeted by off-color cream, blue, and green everything--almost the exact same colors my grandparents painted the basement kitchen of their tiny Queens bungalow. You'll see paintings of halfnaked women and brewer's memorabilia straight from the mid-70s, the period that almost all of the songs in the set will be taken from.

When the band strikes its first note around 10, all the old people hit the floor. Diane Blue, the lead singer/harp player, is usually just showing up with her coffee (the bassist ably handles vocals for a bit). As the scene heats up and the youth arrive, many old people leave around 11 to pass out or mate drunkenly. Then the paradoxes or ironies or coincidences truly begin.

You're in an amusingly decayed, musty warp zone where musically, it's 1975, young and old and black and white dance together, and pretty, apparently single girls amass at the back corner bar too nervous to hit the floor until that third or fourth drink. A feeling builds--excitement? pleasure? enjoyment? Which fits best? The band never runs out of covers. The funky old dude on the strat never hits a bad note; in fact, he actually shreds. Shreds. Sax and harmonica work together to churn out thick melodies that keep asses shaking and mouths smiling.

I always wonder: did I accomplish enough on this visit? Should I have stayed until they kick you out at 2? Should I have flicked my introvert/extrovert switch and spoken to people (girls) I don't know? When will I have the opportunity to go again? It's like being at a high school dance where everything is right and everything is sound and everyone is grown up and they almost know how to be happy, almost.

As a serious realist (which many interpret as "pessimist"), the Cantab gives me hope. To see the musical and sexual and even just observational possibilities amassing is a treat worth the $5 cover charge. The whole atmosphere is like your mother's most loveably flawed dinner recipe: you're not sure whether all the ingredients make sense, but it's home.