Smells Like Spirits

I'm a nostalgic person, which is readily evident in the music to which I listen. I don't tend to let go of old favorites, instead keeping them in steady rotation on my musical playlists. Even songs that I never enjoyed when they were originally released can become sentimental favorites more than a decade later. In my dorm room a few years ago, a friend commented on my song selection and suggested that I host a 90s party. Sitting in proximity, Ted noted that "It's always a 90's party in here." Indeed, the soundtrack to my room was almost exclusively 90s pop-rock.

At about the same time, I was introduced to 90 Proof a local band that became my favorite, second only to We Are Scientists (who have gone on to big things - or so I hear). 90 Proof is a band that exclusively covers 90s rock songs, appealing right to my sense of nostalgic. Each concert was a certified hit: intoxicated college students love bouncing and screaming along to songs from their youth. When the band went MIA on campus for a while, I made it a point to track them down and find funding for them to come back. In doing so, I established a friendly relationship with the band members and I was smitten. They are genuine, affable people who enjoy paying homage to 90s music as much as I do.

While I was trying to finish my thesis, 90 Proof asked if I would arrange another concert for them and, overwhelmed, I didn't follow through, though I felt guilty about it for a long time to come. Thereafter, I lost touch with the band, but still grew giddy each time I thought of them. When they returned to play at my college again last month (thanks, China!) I similarly had to make an appearance, despite needing to teach the next day. With a 40 in hand, I bounced and screamed along with the other graduates, not feeling nearly as self-conscious as that other time. The only thing more impressive than the wild scene was the fact that Lexi knew every word to "One Week" by the Barenaked Ladies. I had a great forget-I'm-a-teacher time.

When the band played again at a local bar last night, Allison, RJ and eir sibling, Lexi, Stacy, and I went for yet another nostalgia trip. This time, I had a chance to reacquaint myself with the band members when they took breaks in between sets and I still found them to be so down to earth and sincere that I wanted to be real friends with them again. Though they pay tribute to the music of the 90s rock era, they don't adopt the stereotypical asshole rock attitude. And if you know me, you know that Kevin doesn't do assholes. (Well, not anymore anyway.)

The band kept giving a shout out to our table because we were the most enthusiastic for the music. Collectively, we had drank enough beer to have an empty pitcher for each of us to play with during "Everlong." Feeling the rock, we alternately crashed these pitchers into each other and banged them against the table. Somehow, I had failed to notice that my pitcher was not actually empty, and with one solid thrust of the pitcher against the table, its surprisingly plentiful remaining contents flew up and out of the container and on to me. Not just a part of me, but my hair, face, shirt, shorts, and bare, now sticky, legs; I was not just wet, but drenched. Normally, this point in the evening is when one would say, "I'm sorry, I must go home," but there were still a few songs to go, so I waited it out.

I did indeed speak to the band members again at the end of their set. As wet as I was, I felt compelled to admit that I spilled on myself. The lead singer chuckled, "I saw that happen." After trying to seem cool and perhaps even impress the band, I had managed to embarrass myself. Fortunately, I'm not too embarrassed to go to the next show in two weeks.