As a self-proclaimed music snob, going to shows ought to be an integral part of my faux-hipster experience. However, I can’t stand the scene. I hear more from the beard singing along behind me than I do from the frontman. I have to wait five minutes in line for a $6 pint of Bud Light. And the tattooed bartender leaves more head than Monica Lewinsky. I should have brought my flask. Or better yet, stayed at home.
Going to shows is about as much fun as the subway at rush hour—only more expensive, louder, and not necessary.
Not to mention that every bartender musician I meet thinks I really should check out his band’s MySpace. Oh, you’re playing Annex and you’ll put me on the list? Sweet. That sounds like a super Tuesday night. I really enjoy bad indie rock bands that sound like every other bad indie rock band out of Williamsburg Bushwick (everyone knows Billy-burg is played out—read: too expensive). Nice Zombies’ cover, by the way. How original.
I miss the days when the smell of cigarettes masked the smell of hipsters.
Stop dancing. You’re flinging yer hipster sweat on me.