Years ago, my friend Sean called and asked if I wanted to see Motion City Soundtrack play in a basement.
This was a real band. A band with a name, with records people knew. And they were going to play in the basement of a house in Minneapolis. I have no idea how Sean caught wind of it. He knew people in the music world here, and the invite found its way to him, and then it found its way to me.
I said hell yes.
We got there right as the band was rolling speakers down the stairs, so we grabbed some and helped carry them in. The basement was small. They packed people in like sardines. The sound probably wasn’t great, the way basement shows never are, but it didn’t matter at all. You don’t go to a show like that for fidelity. You go because a band you love is somehow standing six feet away in someone’s house.
I’ve thought about why that night stuck with me for so long. For a while I figured it was just the uniqueness of it, the notoriety of the band against the smallness of the room. And that’s certainly part of it.
But then I realized that Sean didn’t have an unlimited number of invites. He could have brought anyone. He brought me, because he knew my taste in music the way you only know it about someone you’ve spent real time with. We used to drive around with no destination, just to listen to songs we both loved. That wasn’t killing time. That was us learning about each other. And when something rare came up, he already knew I’d be the one who’d lose my mind over it.
The good invitations go to the people someone actually knows.
Most of us want to be the person who gets that call. Fewer of us do the slower work of being the person who makes it, the one paying close enough attention to know exactly who’d want in.
Sean and I have mostly lost touch. I got serious with my wife, he was single, life pulled us in different directions, and eventually he moved to California. We’re down to the occasional message now.
Last year I saw Motion City Soundtrack play a small venue here, and the basement scene came flooding back. I sent him a photo and said it reminded me of that show we found our way into twenty years ago.
“Oh snap! Prolly sounded better tho.”
I’d told him I couldn’t even recall the acoustics, just that it was a core memory I’d never forget, and that I hoped he was well.
He remembered how it sounded. I remembered how it felt.
