Beck Secret Show: Big Rock, Small Scale

At 4:15 yesterday, I and some coworkers were sitting in the Bureaucrash office when an email came in: according to the Washington Post’s entertainment blog, Beck—yes, folk-rapping, platinum selling, enormodome-playing Beck—would be playing a secret, unannounced midnight show at the Black Cat. And not even on the main stage, but on the venue’s tiny backstage, and for just 170 people. Naturally, we dropped everything and high-tailed it over to U Street.

The line was surprisingly short when we got there—maybe a dozen people. We were relieved, figuring we’d definitely get in—that is, if there was actually going to be a show. The staff wouldn’t even confirm that Beck was playing, and once they did confirm, they couldn’t (or wouldn't) tell us when the doors would open, if we’d be able to buy tickets for others, if there’d be re-entry, or if we were going to have to stand outside on the street the whole night while the regularly scheduled show went on at the main stage. The entire thing seemed to be designed to prevent anyone from making any firm plans. Give up your evening for the chance to stand an arm’s length from Beck, was the message, and we bought it all the way.

Eventually, of course, we got in, got stamped, got food and beer (both quite necessary at this point) and hung out in the Cat’s Red Room, a little buzzed from having made it through the line gauntlet.

The other lucky concertgoers milled around chattering loudly, jittery with excitement of reckless spontaneity. Many were still dressed in suits and uncomfortable work clothes, not having eaten and not having any plans on how to get home (Metro closes at midnight, which is when the show was scheduled to start). Can I crash at your place? Work is going to suck tomorrow. But these concerns were superfluous: We were there for rock, responsibilities be damned.

When the staff finally ushered us into the tiny, basement-sized space where they were holding the show, the room crackled with delirious energy: We’re going to see Beck here? In this dingy little punk-rock hole? How odd—and how amazing! At 4 p.m. that afternoon, no one in the room had any idea that at midnight they'd end up where they did, still suited up for the office, acting like crazed teenagers. But there they were, loving every minute of it.

For those of you outside the music nerd sphere, it’s the musical the equivalent of going to a local sports bar and watching a game with President Bush. It’s like having Conan O’Brian do a show from your living room. It’s like meeting up with Quentin Tarantino to watch Death Wish on a 27” TV.

And it’s exactly how live rock music should be seen.

For all the trippy, awesome excess of stadium and large venue rock shows, I’ve never been all that impressed with them. You drop a wad of cash to listen to overprocessed, might-as-well-be-CD music while standing a quarter-mile away in a crowd of zillions. Live music isn’t just about hanging out and hearing music—you can do that at a bar with a DJ any night of the week. It’s about getting a sense of the musician, about being close to them, watching how they interact with both the crowd and with their music.

On your iPod, the music you listen to is personal, but only to you. In concert, you get to see how it’s personal to the artist. You already know what it means to you—going to the show lets you share the experience of what it means to them. And that really only happens in the smallish, grungy, cinderblock rock-n-roll dives that continue to host this country’s dying rock scene.

And it’s even true, I think, with record stores. People are bemoaning the loss of mega music outlet Tower Records, with Slate quoting some lost record store wanderer complaining, “I can’t help but notice that there’s never anyone younger than me shopping at Tower.” Tower may not be drawing the youngsters, but if the crowd I saw last Saturday afternoon is any indication, the tiny, independent record stores like Park Avenue CDs in Orlando still bring in the kids because, like those grungy rock clubs, they provide a sense of community, of passion for their art, of personal commitment—and it blows away Tower’s perfunctory appeals to the masses.

Last night, I stood 10 feet away as Beck put on a flawless, fantastic set in a badly-lit cinder-block hovel, and yet, despite the lack of high-tech showy distraction—in fact, because of that lack—it was amazing: a great big rock star playing with the perfection that only a great big rock star can, yet also somehow reduced to being just another guy with on a stage with a guitar and a microphone. You can call it intimacy, or staring into a rocker’s soul, or just small-is-beautiful, punk rock style. But whatever you call it, it’s pretty damn excellent, and it’s the only way to see a show.

Addendum: DCist has some photos and a post-show rundown. Hell yes indeed.

Addendum Redux (loving Web 2.0 edition): Catherine has pictures of the line, at least one of which includes me (well, my back). And Jason from Bureaucrash grabbed a good cell phone snap of the Beck himself from our very-close vantage point.