Metric at Cubby Bear (Psych!)

In the past, leaving a concert early was a preposterous fantasy. Furthermore, bailing prior to the act taking the stage was unfathomable. There have been various instances of waiting an obscenely long time for the main act to take the stage. Neal and I recounted a few such concerts and marveled at our ability to remain patient. We stayed, thankfully, when Patti Smith took forever to mount the stage outside the Tribune Tower at the "Rock the River" festival. We (along with my brother, who I think also attended the aforementioned Patti Smith show) also stretched when Kinky and, finally, The Flaming Lips waited an eternity to play at the Aragon Ballroom for the "Unlimited Sunshine" show. Now, though, I'm reluctant to wait for an extended period of time.

Part of this has to do with an unchecked rudeness that I won't abide. I can cut the band some slack for not being prompt, but nary a whimper for a 9 PM show at 10:30 is just wrong. And rude. If some extenuating circumstance prevented the band from playing within two hours of the time on the ticket, a rep should at least let the crowd know. Otherwise, their (the crowd's)/our ire will not abate, and only proliferate. At the Chicago Theatre, Leonard Cohen emerged within minutes of the ticket time, and Bob Dylan has likewise decided to begin his concerts promptly. There's a bevy of snickers to be heard with regard to these two (because they're old, and they need to squeeze as much time as they can out of their respective dwindling hourglasses, or they want to finish their shows before their early bedtimes, etc.), but they start within the day on which the ticket promises, at least.

Then there's the MS imposition. I might (might) have waited a bit longer, but I can't stay upright for that long with nothing happening to hold my attention. It feels like blood refuses to remain in my extremities for long. My hands and feet get cold quickly, and stay that way unless I lie down and allow the blood to propagate throughout my body. Without such a reprieve, my head will almost float, and not in a good way. Everything on the periphery of my vision melts together like the cryptic letters in Sneakers that change into readable text. Like when the code gets broken, but in reverse.

After an hour, I wondered how I would make it through the whole main set. It didn't take long, though, for me to forget about that. After an hour, I began to plan my exit. The place was relatively full, but I easily could make out the exits clearly.

One word about the Cubby Bear. I will say that, although the normal clientele and location across from Wrigley Field should place it on my list of disregarded things, it's actually not that bad of a place. Of course, it was a skeletal version of what I know that I abhor, but it didn't bother me so much.

I wonder how much of this was the calm result of deflected anger at Metric for making me wait. No matter, because I got the hell out of there before the band could redeem itself.

At one point, Neal commented on how many concerts I've been to. It's true, and I even make up band names if someone rattles off an obscure punk band. Once, during Spring Break, I dragged my friends to an Eyeliners concert in Orlando. Some kid who was trying to assert his "credibility" went through a litany of bands he had seen at the venue, which I don't even remember. Sick of hearing names that I knew I didn't know and never would, and subsequently didn't care about, I started making up band names. "Oh yeah--they're great. Do you like The Metal Batons?" He admitted that he hadn't heard of them, and neither had I.

I've seen Metric before at Metro (my favorite venue), with my friend Jess. Afterward, we agreed that it was a terrific show. This show, a block away at the unfortunately named Cubby Bear, may have been equally as good, but I didn't see it so I have no idea. Nor do I care.

In five years, I'll probably say that I saw the concert. In my mind, at least. Memory is subjective, anyway. At least so hopes the Catholic Church.

R