Summer 2004

Fear and Loathing in a Sea of Hipsters
Franz Ferdinand at Shampoo in Philly

As any of your buddies who stare at their shoes a lot can tell you, Wilco's got a new album out. It's all inspiring and shit. Me? I don't care one lick. Even if that CD came with a plate of home-made mac-n-chee, I wouldn't buy it. I'ma holdin' a protest. I'ma protestin' lame-wad indy-rock bands because of what their music does to their lame-wad fans. I call them indi-minions. Why? Well…it's because those filthy hipster kids almost ruined my Franz Ferdinand concert!

You see, I'd been dying to see the rockin' foursome from Glasgow since back in December of 2003. Their single, "Take Me Out", was in heavy rotation on BBC Radio1, and I was smitten. Their combination of suggestively dirty lyrics and rock driven dance music possessed my soul. These guys are excellent. When I read that they wee coming to Philly in May, I planned for a night of sexy dancing and fun. A Franz Ferdinand is for dancing, not slack-jawed gawking. I THOUGHT the world would have gotten the memo by then.

I was damn wrong.

Hell, I wasn't even close.

The line for morons like myself who did not buy advanced tickets was long, and for a moment, we feared that we would not get into the show. But, of course, that's why God created scalpers. Some guy sold me three yellow tickets for a small profit (who am I to complain, at least TicketMaster didn't get any money.) My wife, Bigfoot, a friend, and I rushed to the concert hall to find a good place to see the band. Sons and Daughters (another Scottish band) were playing already, and the main floor was packed. We found a slightly elevated spot behind the sound board. This allowed for me to stand behind Bigfoot. I also hoped to be able to watch the crowd bounce to the music.

I was damn wrong.

Well, I was able to stand behind my darling wife, and we danced around a bunch, but not everyone came with that activity in mind.

It seemed that about 70% of the crowd that piled into Shampoo that night must have spent the day listening to Iron and Wine, or some other suicide inducing hipster music, because these tools in the crowd were already dead. Or, maybe, they were too weak to dance. What could their problem have been? The music was not self-referential enough? Did the urge to move ones hips contradict the purpose of wearing black jeans and a thrift-store tee-shirt?

After the second song of the night, I wanted to yell at the crowd, "I'm sorry, but Elliot Smith is dead, and he's not coming back! Get over it and live a little!"

Alas, harsh words would have been wasted on those tools. Them's the perils of striving for hip-ness (or keeping up appearances thereof.) There's a pathetic inability to enjoy the current moment, the "now". Their frantic tension freezes them, not wanting to possibly be perceived as uncool on the off chance that Brent DiCrescenzo or Ultragrrrl may be looking. God forbid.

Seriously, the constant quest for hipster perfection, and living in either that quest, or at the apparent apex puts one at a disadvantage with regard to enjoyment. No one wants to be seen at a moment of non-attainment. It's a vicious cycle in which to be caught. And, on top of it all, it makes you a waste of space at a perfectly wonderful concert.

Am I ranting like an old man? I am Grandpa, but I'm being sincere. If you miserable people want to stand still and sip your beer, go see Dashboard or Sigur Ros. If I catch any of you bastards at a Polyphonic Spree concert, I'ma breakin' out my private stash of whoop-ass.