a house show for a band that only plays live

i don’t remember how i got to the house. probably, i walked to the playground, where i met tyler, and he drove me the rest of the way (as usual). i do remember the house. it was in the country past the weird highway traffic light. it belonged to brian’s older brother, who he lived with, and was one of the ones with the extra door that led straight to the basement. the basement was dimly lit and formerly carpeted- i had helped pull it up one hot september afternoon. there was a pillar in the centre that, throughout the house’s use as a venue, became home to various flyers, graffiti, and lyrics. there was only one window, always open in a feeble attempt to regulate the temperature. 

at this time, the infamous ping-pong table still darkened the back corner. a few weeks later, it would meet a grisly demise when a bass solo got out of hand and a group of intoxicated debauchees came crashing down into it. but, i digress. 

the minute tyler and i arrived, he was swept up in brian’s embrace, always a ferocious hug and- when one was feeling particularly salacious- a peck on the cheek. the boys hurried off to set up the equipment, and i floated around until i found quinn. 

she and i spent much of the time huddled in the corner, whispering like two nuns. at one point or another, the conversation turned towards kyle and his crush on brian’s drummer. he never made a move, because he believes that he is only beautiful if one is either incredibly intoxicated or incredibly tired. quinn and i made many futile attempts to dissuade him from this narrative, but it never stuck.  

the only photograph i have of that night is a polaroid of brian. he’s bent over the ping-pong table, his long hair is tangled in his face. his shirt is pulled up to his chest, revealing a sickly bruise on his lower ribcage. his face is distorted in concentration. his eyes are sparkling. this picture is taken moments before he snaps the paddle in two when he misses the ball and loses his balance. 

i’ve never really taken pictures at shows. it never really occurs to me in the moments to document everything, and besides, i don’t feel the need. i always thought i might get around to it, so i could have something to look back on someday. but, these basement shows don’t happen anymore. brian’s band disbanded unofficially two years ago, when the world shut down, and officially last march, following the death of the drummer. 

(we held his funeral on the beach, in the snow. it was a small event, less than ten in attendance, no body. we built a little cairn and lit a few candles. it was the only time i’ve ever seen brian cry. in fact, he had been so torn up that the next day he’d left for chicago, telling only his brother where he went. he brought his guitar and a few changes of clothes, and spent the next five months crashing on some cousin’s couch. he came back in august with his hair shorter and half an album written- but this is three years before, and tonight he is still alive.)

brian would always hold the guitar pick between his teeth when he pushed his hair back out of his face. he kept them in an altoid tin that frequently went missing. that night, tyler taped it to the column and brian spent nearly twenty minutes looking for it before he noticed. he always said this set was one of his best, and he’d always tell the story the same way: grin with half his mouth, tilt his head to the side, wink. he’d say he snapped six guitar strings that night. i only remember him breaking two, and the panicked re-stringing between songs. 

at the end of the night, i couldn’t find my shoes (i can’t remember why i took them off), so i took kyle’s boots. i meant to give them back, but as time went on we both forgot. i’ll give them back one day, but his feet have probably outgrown them. tyler dropped me off back at the playground, and i made my familiar walk home.