I wish I could tell you that I didn’t drive three and a half hours to go to a concert of a C-grade band in Little Rock on a Thursday night in the middle of the semester. I wish I could tell you that said band wasn’t my favorite band my freshman year of high school. I wish I could tell you I didn’t miss any classes to attend said concert. I also wish I could tell you I didn’t total my car on the way back from the concert. Do I regret it, though? Absolutely not.
The Classic Crime has been my favorite band since I saw them live in 2012. That was both the first live concert I went to and the first time I listened to “secular” music. Back then they were composed of four punk rock kids from Seattle, but they’ve since grown into four aging hipsters who think they’re still punk rock kids from Seattle. I was only able to talk my parents into letting me see them because some of their music had a Christian influence and because the pastor’s kids were going. My dad still tagged along “just in case.”
Fast forward six years, and I haven’t stopped listening to The Classic Crime. I’ve been to every concert they’ve played in Tennessee and even went to a living room tour that featured the lead singer’s side project with his wife. Something about the catchy choruses, thoughtful verses, and transparent bridges captured me, and I’ve never gone back. I’ve easily listened through all five of their full-length albums at least a hundred times, and I never miss a chance to see them live, even if it means driving nearly four hours to a crappy city in Arkansas on a school night.
***
After a fairly smooth ride there followed by a mini-fiasco checking into the hotel, we finally made it to the the concert. An almost-scary, 50-something-year-old bouncer in a gray polo checked us into the venue. About five minutes after Josh and I got in, we realized Joel was still trying to convince the Polo Guy that his ID wasn’t fake. This might make some sense if we were at a bar where you have to be 21, or at a Taylor Swift concert that costs $250 for standing-room only access. It doesn’t make sense for a $20 concert at “The Rev Room” in Little Rock, Ark., though. We were all more than a little annoyed by the time Joel had to recite his full name, date of birth and zodiac sign just to be checked off of the 150 name guest list.
The concert was bad. Don’t get me wrong; but, the 40 minutes of listening to Matt McDonald sing all the songs that got me through high school and my first two years of college made the whole thing worth it. When the headlining band is The Classic Crime, you know the openers are going to be garbage. We nearly made it through the first act, but when the lead singer started referring to the sub-headlining band, Matt and Toby, as TobyMac, we knew it was time to go to the pizza place across the street. We nodded at Polo Guy on the way out and hoped the wristbands he gave us were enough to get us back in before the main event started.
We decided that this was probably the best pizza Arkansas had to offer, in that it was passable. The whole place actually sucked less than anything else we’d been to there. A few middle-aged men sipped on beers at the bar and a family of four enjoyed a nice meal in the corner, while about 15 TVs that line the walls showcased late-February college basketball games. There were even TVs at the urinals so you don’t have to miss any the game after your fourth refill. For a second I almost convinced myself I wouldn’t hate living here.
We got back to the concert during Motherfolk’s last song. By then there were about 120 people; half of them were well-dressed church-goers that only ever listened to The Classic Crime because of the religious undertones, and the other half were 30-year-olds who never grew out of their emo stages. I decided quickly that I’d stand with the latter half when the show started.
Motherfolk didn’t suck. In fact, they were actually pretty good and we almost regretted the mid-concert pizza run, especially after Matt and Toby got on stage. The only reason Matt and Toby were there is because they’re friends with members of The Classic Crime, and their whole show was a series of borderline sacrilegious jokes that weren’t even funny sandwiched between bad songs that they seemingly hadn’t rehearsed in months. The funniest thing either of them said was that the mic smelled like cocaine after Motherfolk played. That wasn’t a joke, though.
At one point Matt started what I’m 60 percent sure was a mock-invitational that sounded exactly like the end of every service during a middle school church camp. Matt pointed directly at our group and asked us repeatedly if we were saved. At this point we just regretted not just staying at the pizza place.
After about 45 minutes of this we finally got to see the The Classic Crime. About six people who apparently came to see Matt and Toby left, but everyone else gathers around the stage to hear their favorite band for the first (and probably only) time in Little Rock.
They all seemed distinctly older than even when I saw them last year; Alan (bassist) had a beard that was nearly half-gray. Skip (drummer) had the signature layer of sweat covering his arms before the show even started, and a headband covered his ever-so-slightly receding hairline. Matt (lead singer, different Matt than the one in Matt and Toby) couldn’t do any of his screamo stuff anymore and even struggled to get through his regular songs without a voice crack or two. At 34, he also couldn’t quite pull off the side-shave he tried to sport for this tour.
Despite their aging and several sound system issues, their show was still great, if only because I knew every song by heart along with everyone else left at the Rev Room, especially the emo section I stood with. My ears and voice were totally shot after the show.
***
“Woke up in a hotel, three hours of sleep last night. Only thing real to me is a 13 hour drive.”
The first two lines of The Classic Crime’s “What I’d Give Up” resonated a little too closely for me the morning after the concert. Okay, so my drive was only six hours back to Nashville for the weekend, but everything else about that verse was true for me. Joel had a Greek test at 1 p.m. that day so we rolled out around 6 a.m.
We were making great time at first. We could see the Memphis Pyramid in the distance at 9 a.m. and thought we could get Joel back in time to even study for a couple hours before his exam. That’s when some lady who didn’t know how to drive a stick shift stalled out in the left lane of I-40.
I slammed on the brake, but there was a car to my right and a concrete barrier to my left, so I hit the car in front of me at around 30 mph, just slow enough not to trigger the airbags. I immediately knew that the three-car-pile-up would go down as my fault since I was in the back. I also immediately knew I wouldn’t see a dime from the wreck since my van was old and I didn’t have full coverage on it.
As if the situation couldn’t get any worse, the person I ran into was crazy. I probably got a little more upset than I should have when she pointed at my face and yelled “you better not leave!” While I was on the phone with the cops, my minivan’s hood was smashed all the way in and all of its vehicular fluids were dripping further east on the interstate than I’d get for the next half-hour. As I explained to the sheriff what happened and even admitted that it should probably go in the books as my fault, Crazy Lady was standing behind my shoulder mouthing “it was his fault,” while pointing at me.
After we dealt with Crazy Lady, the sheriff and a tow truck driver (who was actually really nice — shout out to my boy Jim Bob!) we waited in the Pyramid for five hours for my parents to get there from Nashville. We thought about trying to get an Uber to take us to Jackson for Joel’s test, but then decided against it. That Pyramid, once a symbol of hope, became our holding cell.
Fortunately this holding cell had a restaurant with $11.99 bottomless shrimp, so we ate well, even if the manager didn’t appreciate our three-hour visit. We spent the rest of the time walking around the Bass Pro Shop with our duffel bags, backpacks and uncombed hair hoping we didn’t look homeless. We did.
We did eventually make it back to Union and Joel got to take his exam the following Monday.
I wish I could tell you that I’ve learned my lesson, but anytime The Classic Crime plays within eight hours of where I live, I’m going to be there. Only next time I might make Joel drive.
Here’s the full setlist from the concert, plus that one song from Motherfolk and What I’d Give Up:
