Jonny Numb

When was the last time I drove down to DC for a show?

Was it for The Residents at the 9:30 Club?

Or Nine Inch Nails at the Verizon Center (or whatever the hell it’s called now), the day Lizard got his Mitsubishi (RIP) and we almost hit a deer near the Shrewsbury exit on the way back?

In any case, it’s been a while.^

And this is entirely by choice – while I don’t mind a breezy jaunt down I-83 to attend a show at Baltimore Soundstage or Metro Gallery, venturing further into the crusty rectum that is our nation’s capital has always put me on the defensive…not for political reasons, mind, but because it’s a long drive and there’s usually, almost always, a geographically closer option to see touring artists.

I say almost always because, of course, there are always exceptions to the rule that would force my hand in considering a trip to DC.

Such was the case when English-Swedish Goth duo Lebanon Hanover announced a U.S. tour earlier this year. Their closest stop to me? Black Cat in Washington, DC.

I didn’t hesitate in securing tickets but immediately questioned my fortitude in committing to the trip once it rolled around. I’ve said it before, but I sometimes find excuses to flake out of going to shows, and sometimes said excuses are as simple as, “I’m not familiar with the venue or city, and I just don’t want to deal with the frustration of finding parking, etc.”

But in a bit of a paradox, a factor that actually made me optimistic was the location itself – after all, the last time Lebanon Hanover toured the States, their closest stop was New York City…a hike I’d loathe even more than the one to DC.

It came to a point in the timeline where I was building a sense of “positive nervous anxiety” (if such a thing exists) toward the adventure, in part because I’d strategized taking a half-day off work to see my way down to DC, followed by a full day off to recover from the late-night drive home.

All said, things went according to plan: after scarfing down a sandwich and changing at home, I set off at around 2pm, arrived at the parking garage a little after 4, and used my Waze app to guide me to a couple record shops in the vicinity.

In hindsight, I should’ve used Google Maps (which has a navigational option for walking), but this is what happens when I don’t have a travel companion to monitor my awkward decisions.

In any case: Decibel Music was a washout, closed when I walked by (per their Instagram, they’re in the process of moving). Next, I wandered over to Smash! Records, which was open and had a modest CD section to complement the larger vinyl inventory; one downside of small shops is that they always seem warmer than chain stores that don’t need to worry about the monthly utility bill. That said, I picked up two reasonably-priced used CDs from Refused and River City Rebels.

The neighborhood I was in reminded me a little of the clean shopping districts of Montreal – a variety of business types, lots of eateries (from fast food to more upscale fare), and even a Trader Joe’s down the street from the venue. Destitute folks inhabited the square just outside the parking garage, but overall, the humans on display represented a melting pot of cultures, ages, and various degrees of economic success.

As I backtracked from Smash! Records, I stopped in at two shops I’d seen along the way: Joint Custody, a basement vinyl shop with some vintage clothes thrown into the mix; when I saw they didn’t have any CDs (just vinyl and a small collection of cassettes), I just began randomly sifting through their Ambient/Electronic section to kill some time, and walked out with nothing.

Big Planet Comics was next door, so I stopped in and glanced through their shelves – again, nothing I couldn’t live without (or procure locally), but I liked the layout and selection, and the lone clerk was friendly. In hindsight, I guess I could’ve picked up some Christmas gifts.

At this point, I wandered back to the garage, dumped my small take in the trunk, and sat in my car for a bit, chewing on some snacks and hydrating as I attempted to relax for a spell. It was overcast and cool outside, but I’d made a blunder in wearing my work slacks instead of changing into shorts; this, combined with an unzipped hoodie, had turned me into a sweat-soaked mess as I walked briskly through the neighborhood. Adding insult to injury, my heels were aching through the flat soles of my Converse One-Stars – had it really been so long since I’d hit concrete sidewalks so aggressively?

I perspired so badly that – in addition to looking like a crazed hobo wearing a “Free Hugs” sign – it smeared the ink on the envelope I’d written the store-names down on (in my right rear pocket) and even dampened the protective case for my cell phone. I wondered if the bleeding ink had stained my pants, which would’ve been even more embarrassing (thankfully it didn’t).

When I bitch about summer, this is the type of thing I’m talking about. (A friend of mine was diagnosed with hyperhidrosis – maybe I should look into that.)

In any case, I put on more deodorant (never leave home without it!), shed my hoodie (as it was bound to get warm inside the venue), and ventured back out into the world, mostly to get my bearings for Black Cat.

As it turns out, my parking spot was more fortuitous than I realized, as the venue was almost literally “just around the corner.” There was a moment’s confusion when Waze put me at my destination, but it didn’t register until I glanced across the street.

The ticket had a vague “7:30” start time listed, and while a few people had lined up outside the club entrance, it was only around 7 when I arrived, so I popped into Solid State Books next door and browsed a little before settling in line.

As I’d noticed at a few other points while walking around, some uniformed National Guardsmen strolled past, looking confused in a “what-the-fuck-are-we-doing?” sense, but otherwise nonplussed.

7:30 was doors, so I wandered upstairs after getting my ID checked and my ticket scanned, got a lay of the land, and asked one of the bartenders if they had a food menu (“we don’t serve food, but you can leave, go get something, and bring it back” – a first for any venue I’ve been to). I had spied a pizza shop nearby, so I stopped in and got a turkey wrap (estimating more nutritional value and energy stability than a slice of pizza) and beelined to a seated area once I re-entered the venue. The wrap was a salty, mostly mediocre thing, but…it was food, and kept the Hangry Demons at bay.

After finishing, I checked out Lebanon Hanover’s merch (albums on vinyl and CD; a couple T-shirt designs; a tote bag; buttons) and picked up their latest, Asylum Lullabies, and one each of their 4 button designs. I then ordered a Coke at the bar and decided it was time to stake a spot on the floor.

To describe the opener, Jim E. Brown: imagine a white Wesley Willis in a turtleneck and a sport coat and replace the schizophrenia with running jokes about alcoholism (he kept asking the crowd to buy him a beer). And, not unlike Willis – and I’ll catch shit for this – Brown’s shtick grew tiresome after the first song. Example of the repetitive, between-song banter:

“My name is Jim E. Brown! This is a song about how I threw up on the bus once! It’s called, ‘I Threw Up on the Bus Once’!”

Rinse. Lather. Repeat.

His act went on for 45 minutes that felt endless due to overall lack of momentum and the aforementioned repetition…but the young couple standing in front of me seemed endlessly entertained by his performance, so maybe I’m just old and out of touch.

While I always hold out hope that opening acts will lead me to new and exciting music, I cut my losses by assuring myself I wasn’t there for Jim E. Brown.

Lebanon Hanover didn’t keep the crowd waiting for too long, starting just after 9:30 (15 minutes after Brown shuffled offstage) and playing for roughly an hour (including a 2-song encore). My view wasn’t the greatest due to a fellow with a Richard Spencer haircut positioned squarely in front of me, but I was able to bob left and right to get views of Larissa Iceglass (nee Georgiou) and William Maybelline (nee Morris) as they played their unique brand of postpunk/Goth for the captive audience.

I was surprised they incorporated “Gallowdance,” one of their most popular songs, into the main set and not the encore, but I’m not complaining.

For a bit of additional context: Lebanon Hanover was one of the bands I was looking forward to seeing at the 2015 edition of the Amphi Festival (Cologne, Germany), but due to high winds and a storm threat the day they were scheduled to play on an outdoor stage, their set went from postponement (festival organizers: “we’ll try to find a way to incorporate you into the main stage”) to cancellation (festival organizers: “yeah, we were probably just talking out our asses to assuage the fans’ disappointment”).

This was a huge letdown that hung over me for years, lamenting Lebanon Hanover’s periodic, brief “major markets” U.S. tours that would stop well outside my comfort zones of Baltimore and Philly. (DC may suck – for a myriad of reasons – but NYC is a far greater logistical nightmare.)

So to finally be in the same room with Iceglass and Maybelline – swaying in sync with the other gathered Gallowdancers – felt like the grand payoff to a longtime wait. I take terrible concert photos, but I kind of like the shot I captured of Larissa midway through a head-swivel:

Interestingly, the traffic felt heavier and more aggressive during the drive home, but I obviously made it back in one piece.

^ = as it turns out, it was The Residents at the 9:30 Club, where a screening of the Theory of Obscurity documentary was followed with a live performance by the band, on April 29, 2016.

(Header photo image credit: Isolde Woudstra)