This is a guest post written by sophomore history major Luke Sower.
As I wrap up my second year of college, I have been spending significant time considering my upbringing. From my lifelong home in Cedar Hill, TN (a rural community 40 minutes North of Nashville), I grew up to love music and the freedom it gave me to reach outside of my current context. I still remember in the 7th grade when my mom let me register for my own Pandora Radio account on my iPod Touch. I cherished the opportunity to spread my musical wings outside of the confounds of my parents’ iTunes library.
Over the next six years, I journeyed into the depths of Indie music. Folk-influenced bands like Bon Iver and The Oh Hellos walked me through high school, and rock- or pop- influenced acts like Local Natives and Vampire Weekend helped celebrate my new freedom as a college student. There has been a progression in my taste, and college has helped me find lots of great new music, but I rarely ventured outside of the home I had found in Indie music, as broad and vague a term as that may be. When I listened to a new band, it was often one which had lots of similarities with other music I listened to and enjoyed. I tested the waters of a new genre rather than diving in head first. This consistent progression of change in my taste shattered on December 13, 2017, when everything changed. This was the night of my first emo show.
Before I continue, I want to make sure that we’re on the same page. Some of you may (as I did) hear emo and think of someone akin to Orin from Parks & Rec: thin, pale, morose, and dressed in all black, complete with dark makeup and nail polish. And you may think of music which is unbearably loud, in which the vocalist screams incomprehensibly for the entirety of the song. While there are aspects of each of these common images in the contemporary emo music scene, they are not what I experienced. This is a group of musicians who embrace their emotions, as the name “emo” suggests, and this shows itself in their lyrics and stage performance. We’ll get to that later.
Let me set the stage.
In late November 2017, Clark Hubbard asked me to accompany him as he drove to Nashville on the Wednesday of finals week to see a concert with a bunch of bands of which I had never heard. Naturally, I was skeptical. However, one of the bands playing was Eureka, MO (pronounced “Eureka, Missouri”, the first of a few fantastic emo band names you will read in this piece), the band of mine and Clark’s good friend Beau Williams, who graduated from Union the previous spring and who we both missed very much. Clark also tempted me by informing me that Ted Kluck was also planning to attend. I had never met Ted, but I heard many great things from Clark and others about him and was excited to attend a rock concert with a college professor. In the end, my love for Beau wrestled my sense of responsibility to the ground, and so I agreed to go. A few days before the show, Clark, Caleb (a friend of ours who also loved and missed Beau greatly), and I organized transportation and the day’s schedule. Clark agreed to drive as long as we abided strictly by his dress code for the show…
“All black, or the brightest and craziest colors you own. Nothing in between.”
I wasn’t sure if he actually knew what he was talking about, but I felt confident that he knew more than I, so I followed his lead. The day of the show rolled around, and I stood before my closet to decide what to wear. Unfortunately, my wardrobe was the definition of anti-emo (at least by Clark’s standards). I did not own a single piece of black clothing, and the brightest thing I owned was a bright red Union t-shirt. I settled on jeans, a solid gray t-shirt, and a pair of white New Balances, accepting my fate: Doomed to stick out as an outsider. My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Clark: “Ted can’t come. Plumbing Emergency.” I hoped that wasn’t a euphemism for anything and lamented the fact that a Union professor would not be part of my first emo show.
I made my way over to Clark’s room, and he greeted me, then questioned me: “Where’s your black or bright colors? Did you not listen?” Clark stopped me before I could mutter an excuse and told me to get something from his closet. I found and donned a black t-shirt which, due to our significant height difference, was large on me almost to the degree of a bold fashion statement. I felt better about this. Even if it was not something I would usually wear, I had confidence in my life-long fashion motto: “It doesn’t matter what you wear (within reason), if you wear it confidently, people will see you and assume it is in style.”
We climbed into Clark’s Envoy (which tragically lacked an auxiliary input) and headed out for what was an uneventful ride. To prepare, Clark maxed out the volume on the tiny Bluetooth speaker he kept on his dashboard with Eureka, MO and Prince Daddy and the Hyena, two of the bands we would soon see play. After a brief pit stop at Cookout (If you don’t know what Cookout is: find one, eat there, and then join me in mourning the fact that one does not exist in Jackson), we arrived at Café Coco, Nashville’s finest 24-hr café/bar/concert venue. We navigated our way through the restaurant part of the building into the back room where the show was taking place.
It is important to remember that before this night, I thought of emo in the same way many of you likely do, as the caricature I mentioned earlier. I expected to enter a dark room full of melancholy, but I was (mostly) mistaken. Upon our entry, Beau hugged us tightly and asserted to us over and over how excited he was that we were there. He then introduced us to many of his friends, each of whom seemed genuinely glad to meet us. For the next hour, as we waited for the show to begin, Clark and I watched attentively as Caleb carried on a passionate conversation about Bitcoin with Beau and some of his friends. They spoke with a level of knowledge and intensity I only possess when I converse with people who pour milk before their cereal. At one point, when Clark and Caleb went to the bathroom, I listened to two guys praise the quality of their PBR (look it up, Union kids) while disparaging one of their friends for being a snob about cheap beer.
(*I’m censoring dialogue for those with tender ears)
“John always says PBR is crap* but this is great on tap!”
“Yeah man! I agree with him that it’s crap* out of a can, but this is pretty freaking* good!”
Beer and Bitcoin may seem like insignificant conversation topics, but they helped me humanize these people. It helped me realize that emo kids are a lot like me, they disagree with their friends about silly things like food and beverages and they’re still trying to figure out what the heck* is cryptocurrency.
Later, the lights dimmed, and two dozen people shuffled toward the small stage at one end of the rectangular room. Four teenage boys made their way onto the stage and each positioned himself behind his respective instrument. The two guitarists turned around to face the drummer and bassist. The room was small and quiet enough to hear them count down the rhythm: “one, two, three, four.” An eruption of sound followed. Each member played his instrument with volume and passion to create a torrent of noise. The band and the crowd rocked and head-banged with the beat. As the first verse of the song came to an end, I noticed that one of the guitarists was behind a microphone and had been singing this whole time. The sheer volume of the other instruments paired with the distortion effect put on the vocals rendered his singing almost inaudible.
Then the chorus began, and the screaming vocals took center stage. I had no idea what was being sung, but it didn’t matter. I watched a man pour everything he had into what he was doing. He and the other band members held nothing back. I understand why many people have an aversion to screaming in music when they listen to it from a recording, and I shared that aversion for most of my life. However, watching Run Tobias (and other bands thereafter) scream live made realize that these vocalists are not screaming just for its own sake, they are pouring their entire selves into their music. Their music explores their deepest emotional struggles, and screaming is a natural outpouring of that pain. As I watched this man reveal his most vulnerable self to a room of mostly strangers, I could not help but respect his courage as a musician. They finished their first song, and the vocalist addressed the tiny crowd: “Hey guys, we’re Run Tobias, and we’re stoked to be here.” He spoke with a quietness which you wouldn’t expect after his vocal performance. “Also, I’ve been washing dishes for six years, but today was my last day. I quit my job today.” Naturally, the crowd erupted with cheers.
After Run Tobias finished their set, we waited a few minutes for the next band to set up their gear. Eureka, MO took the stage next. As Beau finished setting up his gear, he took off his gray sweatshirt to reveal a black t-shirt with the word “Snowing” written in green above a grinning face. A guy yelled: “Yeah! Snowing!” Beau bantered back: “Snowing is the greatest freaking* band ever! RIP Snowing!” (I have since listened to Snowing, and he’s right.) This comfortable banter between performer and spectator shows the small and intimate community I had entered. This was just as much of a concert as it was a group of friends playing music for each other. As I cherished and contemplated this community, the lights dimmed, and Eureka began their set.
I was again stunned by the passion and vulnerability of the lead singer, who was now a close friend of mine. Beau danced around the stage as he and his band played the fun-loving and upbeat music that they branded “family friendly emo.” Toward the end of the set, one their songs slowed down at its conclusion. Somber drum and guitar playing backed a recorded track of a man telling his son about a vision he had the previous night (I learned later that the track was taken from the phenomenal TV show Twin Peaks). As the track ended and the song concluded, the next song immediately began with a pounding beat that was made for head banging. This song began with energy and optimism but ended with just the opposite. At the end of the four-minute rollercoaster, I watched Beau repeatedly sing/scream/weep this hauntingly beautiful lyric: “I wanna kiss you in the morning, smell your coffee breath, I’m warning you, I’m coming on way too strong.”
Eureka finished their set and cleared some of their gear off the stage to make way for the headliner, Prince Daddy and the Hyena (commonly shortened to P Daddy in the vernacular). Beau stepped down from the stage and we each gave him a hug and told him how great their set was. He thanked us, went to the back to sell a couple CDs, and then joined us up front just in time to see P Daddy bring down the house.
So, I told you before that the previous bands were loud, which was true. But they were nothing compared to P Daddy. As they took the stage and the lights dimmed, I noticed a few people in the crowd pulling earplugs out of their pockets, including Kyle, the singer for Run Tobias. There was an old gumball machine with earplugs in it in the back of the room, and Clark and Caleb had debated whether to purchase some or not. I never considered it, feeling pride in my extensive previous concert experience. When the music began, I found myself on the very right of the front row, right next to one of the speakers, and I regretted my decision.
P Daddy were loud, and they rocked. I could see that the vocalist, Kory, was singing, but I couldn’t hear any singing coming out of the speakers. I had never listened to them before, so I had no idea what was being sung, but Beau and Clark were standing next to me screaming the lyrics as loud as they could. The music was so loud that I couldn’t really hear them singing either. Some of you may think inaudible vocals and incredible volume sound like an unenjoyable experience, but you’re wrong. This was my first time hearing P Daddy, and I was hooked. Their combination of killer guitar riffs and pounding drum beats joined with the overwhelming energy of the room to create an exhilarating experience. (As of writing this piece, I saw P Daddy play again last week, and screaming along the lyrics makes the experience that much better.)
In between two of the songs, somebody yelled “Yeah! Thrashville!” I learned later that P Daddy (despite being from New York) had recently released two songs titled “Thrashville 1/3” and “Thrashville 2/3.” I had lived in Tennessee my entire life and considered myself (to some degree) a Nashvillian. I knew plenty about some of the city’s other culture groups like Cashville and Smashville, but I was being immersed into a new part of the city. I was touring Thrashville, and I didn’t want to leave.
Prince Daddy’s set ended, and my goosebumps began to fade. I made a stop by the restroom, and then spent five minutes wandering around Café Coco (which was still packed at almost midnight) looking for Clark and Caleb. I eventually got a text from Clark: “Out back. Come on.” I found a door and made my way to the back of the building. Clark, Caleb, and Beau were standing in a circle talking to Kory and the other guys from P Daddy. I arrived right as the conversation ended, but I snuck in just in time to tell them how much I enjoyed their set. Beau thanked us for coming, we hugged, and then we headed out. The two-block walk to Clark’s car really highlighted how much my ears were ringing. I agreed to drive back, but this worked against me. From my position in the driver seat, I couldn’t hear a word of the conversation between Clark and Caleb, as my right ear was the one closest to the speaker during the concert. (If you’re reading this mom, don’t worry, I have regained my hearing fully since then.)
We arrived back on campus at a timely 2:00 A.M., passed through the security gate, and departed to our rooms. I was never an emo kid in high school, but I knew that was about to change as I laid in bed that night. My ears were ringing, my neck was sore from head banging, and I was excited for what my future held. I woke up early the next morning, aced my last final, and blasted Eureka, MO in my room as I packed for winter break.
In the few months since that show, I have acquired some black clothing, bought myself some earplugs, and attended a half-dozen more emo shows. (If the kind folks at the C&C will allow me, I’d love to write another piece about some stories from those shows.) I have always been a strong advocate for the importance of live music, hence my role in organizing and promoting concerts at Barefoots Joe, but that first show gave that belief a new meaning. I have always understood that live shows allow the viewer to experience the skill of the musician in a unique way. Emo shows have reminded me the importance of an intimate community that doesn’t shy away from vulnerability. These musicians and music lovers have created a culture where musicians are open about their hardest struggles and greatest losses, and are surrounded by love, compassion, and empathy.
