A Heine' in an icebox
High school misfit seeks home at DIY show
Catawba, Ohio. Population 272. Not a stop light to its name. This was our destination.
I sat in the back of a comfortable sedan, waiting to set foot on the scene. I was being chauffeured to my destiny by my best friend’s dad. My sidekick sat in the front seat. Both of us had layered on our most alt accessories in order distinguish ourselves as non-posers.
Presentation on this evening could affect our reputation for years to come. We had opted for the essentials — baggy pants with studded belts, Chuck Taylors, black, rubber bracelets and star-shaped earrings and miscellaneous shoe strings and ribbons repurposed as necklaces. It was enough, it had to be enough. Fitting in here was essential because it wasn’t happening anywhere else.
We had arrived. The sedan settled up to the curb on the dusty street and the engine came to a stop.
Protest.
“Dad, what are you doing?”
“I just want to come in and check it out,” he said, waving his hand casually, as if to swat away our cares.
It was hot inside. The building was old, relying on windows and fans to circulate the late summer air. We wandered down a long hallway, following the sound of electric guitar and drums.
A teenager with a green mohawk entered, and I held my breath. Surely this was just the warning sign that my friend’s dad would be looking for. Unnatural colors styled with glue. But he just said “excuse us” and proceeded to the room.
Once I squeezed past his tall figure, I had a clear view of the Catawba Gym, known across the underground scene of Clark County as a prime space for punk shows. It was all ages and had affordable rent and electricity. Its scuffed, hardwood floors reflected bright lights that juxtaposed with the sound of a crunchy guitar warming up for a set.
Our chauffeur looked around at the big, bright room and the collection of 20 or so high school misfits clustered into little groups.
“This looks safe,” he said, and left us alone.
The scene was underwhelming compared to my expectations, but I quickly determined that the thin crowd was a good sign. Only the truly committed would have found a way out here to the Catawba Gym.
The open space made it easy to observe and be observed. I concentrated on finding a posture that gave my insecurity a cute angle.
It was a two-band bill, featuring our friends in Amused to Death and the punks in Toxic Shock Syndrome. We watched our two friends play their set of Weezer covers and timid originals, bopping our heads politely.
TSS played second, screaming out loud, messy songs. Two colorful mohawks stood proudly above the bass and guitar, and a head covered in a mop-like tangle of hair thrashed around behind the drums. I felt nothing from this music, but I was still in love with the bass player by the time the set ended. The way that his right leg lunged forward while he played did something for me.
People milled around after the show. Our friends introduced us to the boys with mohawks and I flirted through my non-prescription horn-rimmed glasses. The bass player sat on the stage playing an unplugged guitar, dangling his legs over the edge.
“‘Say It Ain’t So!’ I love that song,” I said from the floor below. “Wish I could play it.”
“It’s easy,” he said, and motioned me to sit next to him.
I’d expected edge and crassness and had adjusted my vibe to an apathy that would suit it. I wasn’t prepared for an earnest transaction. When he motioned to hand me the guitar, I was too shy to try the sliding bar chord that he demonstrated. I just giggled, thus beginning a long practice of sacrificing confidence for adorable uncertainty.
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Had to have been Jim D. No one else could have been so cool. This is adorable!