Saturday, April 23, 2011
Day 8, Summerville, SC
A good show is not judged by the amount of people in attendance, nor by the merch sales tallied at the end of the night. Nay my friends, nay. A good show is judged by not but two things: the spillage of blood and the flippage of tables. An outsider might view these practices as barbaric (aye, as many an outsider has) but as an outsider one lacks the vantage point from which to look through the force to the subtly guiding it. They see only blood, we know the reckless abandon that drew it. They see only violence, we feel the boiling point the room reaches in the instant before. At a great show we experience fun with rage, humor with pain, fear with fearlessness- a duality of being that to an untrained eye appears to be just senseless clobbering and destruction. But we know better. Thus the test of blood and tables.
In the freezing grips of the deep south, in a small town called Summerville, in the sleepy state of South Carolina, we played on the linoleum floor of a legion hall. A chair whizzed through the air from one side of the room to the other, over and into the crowd of sweating, grimacing, laughing, moshing kids, and my eyes followed it until I caught sight of something truly beautiful: a single table in the back, caved in. I smiled and thought, “This is a good show.”
After, we were given and promptly scarfed vegan chocolate chip cookies by some kids had had driven something like 4 hours to come (!!!), noticed that Ben (who booked the show) and Dustin looked pretty similar, then packed our stuff up in the pouring rain and freezing air (indoor and outdoor- we could see our breath at the merch table) to go to Dennis from Blacklines' gigantic, super plush, mega-house to shower, sleep, eat ramen, and torture his dog with a laser pointer. Thanks to everyone in Summerville, y'all are awesome.