People are funny

A couple nights ago, I went to see a friend's band play one of their first live, public performances ever. (Their third, in fact.) They played in a typically small, poorly lit pub in a hipster part of town - as they are hipsters, this was appropriate. The bartender, a youngish guy with his cap askew, was unintelligible for some unknown reason, but would occasionally slip in a few garbled syllables to our conversation; we nodded and smiled as if we were in on the joke.

The place wasn't crowded, maybe because it was a Sunday night, but the music was loud. Loud enough for my friends to tear up some napkins and stuff them in their ears. The next day, a couple people from the show seemed to be yelling instead of speaking too. We are not hipsters, you see. But I enjoyed the bands, at least the two I paid attention to.

As an aside, the guys in these bands on average probably wouldn't qualify for boxing's featherweight class. The newly fashionable skinny jeans look baggy on them. They also seem to share the same hair stylist.

A couple songs into the first set, I looked around the room. Just a few people there. Standing far enough apart to preserve their own super-sized personal bubble. All standing still. I'm used to shows that feature head bopping, foot stomping, even some dancing and singing along. Signs of life, of enjoying the music, the rhythm, the feel. At this show, though, it seemed the goal was to be as unmoved as possible. To stand, detached from everyone else there and from the wall of sound created on the stage.

Occasionally at the shows I'm more likely to frequent, I witness a few people that resist the urge to join the crowd even during the most catchy, energizing music, when those around them sway as one, like wheat in a field blown by a fresh breeze. Instead of following the beat mindlessly like the herd surrounding them, they seem unique. Place these stoics, these tragically hip cynics, in a room together, and they become a new kind of herd, don't they?