The indie dude-bro who lives in my soul
First dates and adolescent grief at the Death Cab for Cutie show
There I was, standing tall and alone in a crowd of New York’s best and brightest millennials, waiting for the next set to begin.
The American Analog Set had just finished playing a feverish set to a tepid crowd. I “whoo’ed” extra loud after each song, hopeful they knew someone out there loved them as much as the rest of the crowd loved the main event. I also was a little too high and double fisting my already empty double Rum and Coke.
Forty minutes before, the bartender made the adorable customer service faux pas of asking me “Double or Single” after I’d already asked him for a double. He laughed at himself good natured-ly. I told him it was too loud to hear much of anything, so there was nothing to be embarrassed about. After a brief exchange, he sent me off with my drink and a “I hope you enjoy your night, honey.”
At least I think he said that. It was too loud for me to really be sure, so I’ll forgive him retroactively for the unwanted pet name.
Anyway—there I was, buzzed and faded, giddy to have witnessed AmAnSet groove their way into the hearts of a few dozen new fans. (By the end of it, I saw two women in front of me save their Spotify artist profile to their respective libraries. I had to resist my Gen X man urge to tell them “Ladies, you’re in for a real treat.”)
To the right of me, a couple wandered closer, taking advantage of the swell of show-goers heading for the bar or the bathroom during the set-change over.
The man—6’4”, wearing a snapback, Vans, and an original Death Cab t-shirt, looked around the crowd nervously. There’s no way to know, but I bet his palms were sweaty too.
The woman—a full head shorter than him, sporting dark jeans, tattoos, and a cute tank top, looked similarly on edge, though a genuine smile graced her face anytime he made an attempt to talk to her.
They stood more than a few inches apart, suggesting association and attraction, but not familiarity or comfort. Then, he said, “Hey, I’m sorry I didn’t get balcony seats.”
She smiled that genuine smile in his direction and replied, “It’s okay.” She seemed to mean it too. It wasn’t put on or forced, which suggested she liked-liked him after all.
I spied this interaction out of the corner of my eye and thought, “Ah. They must be on a first date.” I smiled a small smile to myself before a new thought dared to enter my mind.
Who on EARTH brings a girl to a Death Cab for Cutie concert where they play Plans front to back? You know, the album about death, longing, and the fickle nature of time? Some of the saddest 44 minutes you’ll ever hear in your life?
Oh. Wait.
Me. I—I would probably do that.
As I pondered that terrifying thought, I looked around and saw a collection of indie dude-bros scattered across the floor, bopping their heads and moving their bodies back-and-forth in exactly the same manner as I was.
Suddenly, I was hyperaware of my own insufferable indie boy—the one who lives in my soul alongside the too-loud musical theatre kid, the folk music fanatic, and the pop girlie.
He comes out in environments exactly like this one, where all I want to do is organize the crowd by how long they’ve been listening to the band or how many songs they know by heart. He’s such a sneaky little fucker, always arriving just when I need to look effortlessly cool, hot, and approachable for all the beautiful women in the room.
“I am not one of them!” I want to shout. But you know—I am. I can’t help it.
As soon as the first notes of “Marching Bands of Manhattan” resounded, my inner indie boy was out, loud, and proud. Suddenly, I was lost in the music and the moment.
SORROW DRIPS INTO YOUR SOUL THROUGH A PIN HOLE, JUST LIKE A FAUCET THAT LEAKS, AND THERE IS COMFORT IN THE SOUND. BUT WHILE YOU DEBATE HALF-EMPTY OR HALF-FULL, IT SLOWLY RISES: YOUR LOVE IS GONNA DROWN!
As the band played and the songs revealed themselves like petals on a rose, memories of my teenagehood rose to the surface.
For a few hours, I was stuck in a time loop of my own adolescence, remembering the teenage girl in converse, skinny jeans, and band tees sitting alone in her bedroom at 2AM, obsessing over musicals where everyone dies in the end. She loved Death Cab and all the other depressing shit, so much so her mother worried and her classmates mocked her desperate attempts to socialize.
She found easy friends in boys and difficult ones in girls. She listened to “I Will Follow You Into the Dark” a million times, internalizing every breath, every note, and every word like they were gospel. Her heart was more than just an empty room. The walls were falling in. By then, she’d already stared at her shoes in an ICU, the place where people only say goodbye. She’d already heard the bad news and watched as someone she loved died.
What more was there to do but listen?
Thirteen years later, I live in the city I dreamed I would one day inhabit, watching a beloved band perform a transformative album that got me through the worst time in my young life.
The gratitude expands tenfold.
P.S. Ben Gibbard’s voice sounds spectacular live.
"What more was there to do but listen?" ❤️❤️