if I were a carpenter

My account of seeing AnCo at Merriweather, with interpretations by various sent texts/tweets

On Saturday, July 9th, I saw Animal Collective at Merriweather Post Pavilion in Columbia, Maryland.  Sitting in the Lawn (first time on the Lawn at Merriweather) is quite the different experience from being down on the floor.  The Pit is essentially being in a college rave.  E is being passed around, bowls are smoked with less-than-effective discretion (but that doesn’t matter since everyone around the toker pleads ignorance…what a beautiful country we live in), the sweaty, drug-addled youth are ready to move at even the most nonsensical beats (rather, this crowd is especially moved to dance at sounds that take the definition of “melody” at it’s most liberal end).  

The Lawn is more like being at a festival, which I’ve never been to, but I’ve seen pictures of the sort….People are sprawled on their blankets, also toking up, drinking and carousing.  Add the fact that this show exhibited more hipsterdom than any place outside of Williamsburg, and it was an eccentric showing of obscure fashion (plaid pants, goddammit), ironic merriment (nobody likes Black Dice, so stop dancing to it), and a big echo of “meh” throughout the place.  

The strangest thing, however, was the atmosphere of self-aware, or “meta”, knowledge of the hipsterdom.  MPP has several jumbotrons plastered around the lawn, and when no acts are playing, they like to put up an isolated twitterfeed of people tagging or hashtagging MPP.  About 90% of the tweets were about how many goddamn hipsters were around.  No matter where you walked, bits and pieces of hipster conversation were happening, with people making the meta-comments on how hipster they were being.

[Disclaimer: I did the same thing.  I’m going to make my statement right now that I’m not a hipster.  That being said, I’m completely aware everything in this post proves otherwise, especially since I’m denying being a hipster.  This is a catch-22.]  

[Fuck you guys.]

This line of thinking was only underscored when you consider that the last song AnCo played was “Taste”, a song that rejects being pegged and labeled as something simply b/c of one’s taste in certain things, as hipsters are.

Am I really all the things that are outside of me?

This makes sense coming from AnCo, since all the members are basically normal people with families who just like making weird music.  It also makes sense that for much of the crowd, this song didn’t resonate well, because for many of them their identity is irrevocably tied to what they consume.

Here’s an timeline of the show, as interpreted by the various texts and tweets I sent from my phone throughout the night.  Names of the people I sent texts to are omitted, as is some self-incriminating content…

“Im seeing hipsters tailgate right now. my mind is blown” - 6:41 PM

• I sent this one to two of my friends when my brother and I first entered the parking lot.  
• Ironically (how unfortunate I had to use that term…), the parking lot was one grand tailgate.  People setting out with lawn chairs, drinking, some grilling, playing cornhole (WTF??)…you very quickly realize hipsters don’t reject the things normal society members do, they simply enjoy those things only around other hipsters, or at the very least when the opportunity to be ironic presents itself (which quickly dissolves into non-irony when actual enjoyment can be had from said “things”).

“I wish all y’all could see this place, as proof that im not hipster” - 7:03

• Seriously guys, I’m not.
• Reply from Marty: “Bahbahbahbuuuuullllllshhhhiiiiiitttttt” - 7:04
• Marty, fuck you.

“#AnCo @ #merriweather bitchessss” - 7:10 PM

• okay, not the most thoughtful way of expressing my elation, but I never claimed to have the literary finesse of Auden.

“shaym: ‘who do you want to win?’ me: ‘panda bear’. #hipsterjokes at MPPLAWN” - 7:41 PM

• Classic AnCo joke about the “internal power struggle” between bandmembers Avey Tare and Panda Bear.  Shyam and I were both on the same wavelength.
• I’m completely aware this also doesn’t help defend me from accusations of being a hipster. Goddammit…

“Shyam brought a book. sorry im not good company bro #heyhatefulbrother” - 7:49PM

• classic Shyam.  Completely unaware of the implications he’s making at my social skills.
• I’m hoping more than a few people understood the Arrested Development reference.

“Hey random question, are you at merriweather? i feel like i saw you…but im a little high so idk…” - 8:29 PM

• sent to one of my friends.  She’s actually very attractive with a unique look, but when there’s smoke in the air and people are far away, white people tend to blend together, like a coloring book where a 5 year-old has gone apeshit with a peach crayon.

“Whats the term for a type of mathematics thats very noisy?” - 8:49 PM

• The next quote helps to clear things up.
• Mostly…

”[…] do you know the term math-rock? the opener that’s up right now is a noisy (dirty) kind of math rock. chaos-theory-rock.” -8:52 PM

• I needed to find a way to describe Black Dice.  Because that’s what they were.
• I’m a music snob if you haven’t guessed yet.
• Of course a lot of people would just say I’m a hipster.  Goddammit…

“Are you team avey or team pandabro?” - 9:50 PM

• Sent this to my older brother, who despises AnCo.  He never replied back, which saddened me.
• But the thought of him being irritated by this text makes me chuckle wholeheartedly, quelling said sadness.

“Holy fuck” - 10:12 PM (unsent)

• they started playing Brothersport.

“Avey’s killing it. #teamavey and yes hastagging [sic] is like farting after a sentence. #sorryboutit #FART” - 10:22 PM

• I neglected to mention that the majority of the songs played were new songs.  Only four songs were tracks already having been released, and 3 of those were from the most recent album.
• Avey’s songs were dominant, and they were better.  
• One of the things my brother mentioned to me when were gawking at the MPP twitterfeed was that one of his friends once said that she thought hashtagging in twitter was like farting while you say something aloud.  I couldn’t agree more.
• [of course I only hashtag ironically].
• [fuck you guys].

Nail by Nail

When I was in elementary school I would get stomach aches almost every week.  The sharp shooting pain right in the gut, which seemed to stem from hunger (I don’t think it comes as any surprise I wasn’t the most gluttonous amongst my peers) but even after consuming food the pain would persist.

Back then I would imagine I was having ulcers every week and was going to grow up feeling like an old decrepit man who had to live off apple sauce. [At this age I believed old meant 40 years.  Oddly enough, at 21 it’s starting to seem like 40 really is an old age…].  I would also contemplate who I would invite to my funeral if I was to prematurely expire from this malady [at age 8 you don’t immediately realize you can’t selectively invite people after, you know, dying and stuff].

Eventually it just became commonplace, a weekly bout of me vs. myself.  And from what I remember, it rarely became a terrible problem.  I dealt with it with few complaints.  I remember knowing even back then that children have no voice to complain.  If you’re a kid and you’re in constant mourning over little problems, you quickly lose the attention of those in authority.  This inevitably leads to delinquent habits, and before you know it you’re life parallels a Pete Doherty train-wreck. (But then you get to date Kate Moss: that’s the universe throwing you a bone every once in a while.  [Of course Kate Moss had her own problems…so it’s best to think of these bones as gnarled and worn rather than fresh…]).

Contrast to now.  I’m having the first ‘tummy-ache’ [tweeny boppers represent, yall] I’ve had in years. Maybe 10 years actually.  And I’m writhing in pain.  My younger self could kick my ass right now. Kid-Neel could walk 5 miles in this pain before even grunting in discomfort.  Meanwhile I’m struggling to function even in basic movements from room to room.  This is what feeling old is, and at 21 it’s embarrassing as hell.  Underscoring this feeling is the fact the pain has lasted for several hours now, whereas Kid-Neel (while lasting out the pain for just as long) could recover relatively quickly.

From what I’ve learned in Biology* [I’m told I’m paying thousands of dollars for a certificate or some shit that has my name and Biology written on it], the nervous system of the digestive system (particularly in the stomach) works slowly.  For example, during the consumption of your meal and appetite is “satisfied”, it takes your body 20 minutes to actually let your brain be aware of this fact (i.e. you’re not consciously aware that you’re full until 20 minutes after you’re full).  The same, I believe, holds true for stomach pain.  Therefore it’s a prolonged process to feel better and alleviate said pain.

The last couple of days for me have been a string of nostalgia trips, and I guess physical ailments like this should count too.  It astounds me how humbling it is to remember that that younger version of you was tougher against some things.

*I emphasize that what I’ve learned in my biology courses may be a tad different than what was actually taught in those courses….

**Also I realize I used a lot of parentheses and brackets in this post. Simplicity is becoming too mainstream, and I have to stay relevant…

Altered Images

The gym is a part of a society that retains characteristics not found anywhere else.  It’s like the Galapagos Islands.  People from all walks of life communing in this one great big hall, striving for survival [albeit a psychological survival; I think it’s safe to say by now we’ve moved on from exercise being just a means to attaining protection from bears and other clawed animals].  The creation of a new image.

The biggest identifier is the mirrors plastered all along the walls.  There’s no getting away from them; the gym is a Vanity Hall of Mirrors.  Except instead of running around laughing at what twisted contortions your body image makes, it’s either one of two extremes: satisfaction at your newly beheld chiseled physique, or despair at what the mirrors reveal in your limitations.  So I suppose, slightly more nerve-wracking than an actual carnival.  

The mirrors make the gym a testosterone-infused equivalent of the backstage dressing room for a fashion catwalk.  In the gym, the mirrors show one’s evolution into a more powerful person [purely in the physical sense of course], while the dressing room illustrates the metamorphosis from one bubbling trend to the next.  

But it’s the same idea: dressing one’s image into something appealing to the eye of the beholder.  Competing with one-another to obtain and hold the gaze of others.  Both have their wacky assortment of disguises: the overblown bodybuilders that look like their muscles may burst apart to let loose liters of steroids; the models that put on pounds of makeup and adorn styles that make them out to be burgeoning Salvador Dali pieces. [These people are the “clowns” of this carnival].  Look closely in the mirrors and the shaky nerves of some are more than just a tad noticeable, and suddenly a symbol of masculine recreation is of the same cut as an icon of fashionista life.