The Rustiest Night

After more than two months pondering all the great shows I've read happen all the time in Copenhagen, I finally made it to my first concert. It wasn't Owen Pallett, the first act in town that caught my interest. It cost thirty dollars to get into his show so I procrastinated after failing to attain them the first time (as detailed in a particularly gripping blog entry), until the concert date had actually passed. I know I once said it may have been a once in a lifetime opportunity, but let's be real; he plays shows in the US most of the time anyways.

I followed a lead on a Facebook event at a bar/club called Rust. Caribou was scheduled to be there and the cover was only twelve bucks. WHADADEEL! It was on a Thursday night, so I figured I could wrangle them up and convince them to go, since they usually devote weekends to partying, but ofter get stuck at the get drunk phase. I knew the task wasn't going to be easy since most of the time when I play music, either Jesper slams my door or Orla gives me a motherly glance, "How can you listen to this?" I showed Orla "Swim," the Caribou song I thought would be most accessible to new listeners. Her response was predictably tepid, and I ended up going to the show alone. I have missed too many good shows because no one I knew would go with me, and this night I was not going to flake like so many close-minded partiers and mushroom-tripping friends! I left the apartment without the girls, which was a great decision since I don't think they ended up leaving the kitchen table. 

Rust was actually extremely close a street in Norrebro that I frequented while looking for cheep cell phones and bikes from dodgy Turkish vendors. I must have been a block away from the place at least ten times without even noticing it. I didn't take the route I used to through Norrebro though, and felt like I was slowly getting more lost with every drunken stupor I took. It was as foggy as a werewolf movie and dark too. The eerie atmosphere helped me cope with the long, uneventful walk from the train station. My excitement for the show was nearly as gone as my drunkeness by the time I arrived at the entrance.

Hate

My mood wasn't helped by the long line of pushy Danes who didn't even pay me a glance as they budged in front of me. Fuckin' skanks. I don't know how long I stood in that line, but it was long enough for me to consider turning back and going home more than a couple of times. But, in the back of my mind I knew that there was no more fun waiting for me there, so I resigned myself to stand at the mercy of the budging hipsters who rolled in clicks much deeper than one. It was a struggle remaining occupied in that line, or even pretending I was occupied. Really, the only interesting things I had to do were stare at people awkwardly, stare at the brick wall awkwardly, or stare at my phone, a little less awkwardly. Sure, in a perfect world I would have struck up a conversation with a random person, been introduced to all of her friends, and then spent the rest of my night having rip-roaring fun with a big group of new people who loved me and thought my understated brand of sarcasm was the funniest thing they heard since Demitri Martin started doing stand-up. But that didn't happen. Whether it's true or not, I feel like a fool whenever I speak English to Danes, or when I speak Danish for that matter. One particularly bitchy woman in a cafe mocked me for saying "Huh?" when I didn't understand what she or the cashier was saying. Other times I just feel guilty for forcing people to act different just because I can't speak the language. I was also feeling too resentful toward the big pods of friends around me to feel comfortable pretending to have anything close to a pleasant interaction.

Inside was a more inspiring story. The venue was incredible. I went upstairs as soon as I got through the front door and got lost staring at a wall in a bar that I thought might lead to the show room. There were two bars at Rust, both of which had walls and ceilings covered in mirrors that made the small compartments look like long hallways. After trying and failing to enter three of the mirrored walls, I eventually found the stage on the bottom floor.

For a guy who records ambient music that's only really good for smoke seshes and quiet conversation, Caribou puts on a pretty good show. He wasn't much of a showman (no jumping around on stage for the  DJ who's now in his early forties), but his beats were heavy enough to keep a crowd moving. A lone man in a bright orange suit took a particular liking to the music. He flailed his arms around the dance floor and even performed a toe-stomping jig for his captive audience. A crowd began to circle around him, more to avoid his groping hands than to give him the space he needed for his flamboyant dance moves. He reminded me of the way I dance when I really cut loose, except I try to avoid falling to the ground and somersaulting backwards.

I left after a young guy took the tables. Had I checked in my heavy wool coat, I may have been more willing to stand in the hot mist of the dance floor. But my skin was getting itchy from the mass of fabric slung over my arm, and I already counted the show as a success.

Getting home proved to be much more complicated than the trip to the show. As usual, when I most needed the Metro to be operational, it was shut down for maintenance. I asked a Dane what direction Islands Bryge was, since it was the closest landmark I knew I could walk home from. He told me I was better off waiting for the train to start again. I walked off. I was walking the right direction from the beginning, but I wasn't confident in my drunken navigation skills or the directions of Danes who I was worried would give intentionally bad directions just to spite me for speaking English loudly at them.

5:30 I had mad spins and a camera

It took nearly an hour for me to reach the station I asked about. When I finally got there an electronic sign flashed in red that the next train home was coming in ten minutes. At least I didn't wait around for an hour and ten minutes...