Have you ever had that dream where Hal walks up, smacks the Visa card attached to the Big Bank Account — a.k.a. The Endowment — into your hand and whispers, "Go wild!" in your ear? I'm sure in your dreams he's not wearing a neon-green, French-maid outfit, but at any rate, I know what I would do if I controlled the endowment. I would install speakers in every public place, in every dorm room, every classroom, office and broom closet, and connect them all to one central public address system that would broadcast "How to Watch a Performance: An Idiot's Guide" 24 hours per day, seven days per week.
Because people, come on. I've never wanted to inflict bodily harm on any group of people so badly as I did on the crowd at The Roots concert. The Third World Center spent a lot of time and energy putting together the show in Dillon Gym, and The Roots delivered a truly solid set. So of course, Princeton students reacted the same way they did last year for Ben Folds Five.
For the most part, the audience stood there so listlessly I thought they had all gone catatonic at the same time. If there had been a fire, the band would have been forced to make their way through the crowd, and all I could picture at that point was stiff people being knocked aside like a set of over-dressed bowling pins.
Coincidentally, that's exactly what it looked like when the bodysurfers landed on top of unsuspecting members of the crowd. I've never been a big fan of bodysurfing in general, but lots of my friends do it and in certain circumstances — such as big rock festivals or the Warped Tour — it enhances the experience. At a Roots concert, it makes absolutely no sense.
When there aren't shows in Dillon — about every weekend but two during the year — most of us go to the eating clubs to watch bands. For those of us who aren't entirely turned on by the typical night at the 'Street,' this is a good excuse to get out there and show that OA buddy-ex-roommate-sketchy former preceptor that you are still alive. Unfortunately, they'll never know it if they catch a look at you while somebody is performing.
I'll never forget seeing Biz Markie at Tower last year. I remember thinking to myself, "I can't believe how lucky I am to go to a school that can afford guys like this." By the end of the night, I was thinking to myself, "I can't believe so many who seem so smart could be so stupid." Here's a tip, folks: If you hire someone who is legendary for being a disc jockey, he probably wants you to keep dancing when he starts jockeying discs. After changing records every 30 seconds, the poor guy was forced to howl out "Just A Friend" and retreat like a wounded dog, wondering why only three people seemed to know the words to those old Tribe Called Quest tunes.
Certain clubs still book some great acts, but what's the point of having them if people are just going to stand there dumbfounded? One of last year's highlights was definitely the Fighting Gravity show at Quad not because I liked the band, but because people were so into it. This was a rare exception to your average band at the 'Street,' and it really shouldn't have been. It's at the point now where I talk to one of my friends about an eating-club show and the conversation usually runs like this:
"How was so-and-so?"
"Great concert, Princeton audience."
Therefore, I've found myself increasingly looking to New York to see decent live music. But what's the point when shows start at 11 p.m. and the last train out of Penn Station leaves at 1:45 a.m.? As in the case of the band I saw recently, the main attraction doesn't hit the stage until 12:45 a.m. and by then you've got about 15 minutes until you need to be out the door. Door prices are expensive, drinks are worse and don't forget about tacking that train ride onto the total cost of the evening.
On the way home, though, let's not forget the sheer joy of dragging your volume-damaged skull onto the so-called "drunk train" to be subjected to crowds of hammered Rutgers students vying for seats. Suffice to say, the typical behavior for this lot is not quietly discussing poetry and munching on croissants. After getting back to Princeton Junction, hailing a cab and stumbling back to your dorm, the prospect of doing it all over again within the next 10 years is enough to make you physically ill.
Which brings you back to seeing shows in Princeton. I'm about ready to throw in the towel, unless our audiences start showing a little class. Somebody should get some funding from the alcohol initiative to drag bus loads of undergraduates to a few real shows and teach them how to behave. Or, as far as I'm concerned, students might as well just stay at home.
Let me know if the proposal goes through. I'll be in the E-Quad, trying to write a program to hack the endowment's PIN number. David Morris is from Oakville, Ontario. He can be reached at dmorris@princeton.edu.
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