Spent last week in two different basements. House parties both, but as differently directed as the one-way streets which distinguished them both. Can’t reveal too many details here, for the same reasons that we can’t talk about these shows before they happen. These are private residences, and any intimation that the general public is swarming to events at them would put the proverbial kibosh on this overwhelming underground movement.

First basement was a luxuriously laid-out love pad in the Peacock section of town. Leather, vinyl, plush carpeting, a corner bar area with tall stools, cheesy landscape paintings—all of it purchased from hotel going-out-of-business sales, we were told. In the midst of this tacky splendor stood The First Hipsters, the self-styled lounge band we wrote about a few weeks back, had heard about the place and called a few friends (not to mention two other bands suited to the decor: Lite Source and Oakland Living). This was a genteel cocktail party with casual conversations you could actually hear and take part in. Somebody should bottle this atmosphere. Then either the partygoers could spin it and play a kissing game, or The First Hipsters, who delight in discovering new rhythm devices, could shake it or tap on it.

Bottles played a part in the other basement show we caught, and sent one poor woman to the emergency room. This was the more conventional application of the basement rock bash, the kind where the organizers really don’t have the wherewithal to rent halls, apply for permits and all that malarkey. They just plug in and let word of mouth take care of the rest. Two mobs had formed well before we arrived—the kids clambering to get in and the comparatively elderly neighbors tut-tutting across the street, waiting for the police to arrive.
We got the nod from someone in the house and were allowed special entry. Good thing, because we only saw very short songs by Jet de Sang before the cops came—and “saw” is really the wrong verb; all we really saw was the back of some football player’s right shoulder. We look forward to catching JdS in a more expansive space sometime—an attic, perhaps.
The mass egress was relatively orderly. No arrests, which dismayed the neighbors no end, and that bottle-throwing injury actually happened a block away, after the show. So it hardly even counts, right?

We don’t have a basement ourself, but if we did it’d be a mix of the two above: everyone in colorful stripes, bell-bottoms or short skirts, but hanging from the pipes instead of slithering in the shag. When our dream is realized, we’ll have you over for pretzels little hotdogs and hard liquor served in paint cans, while the Rock Pirates play their eyes out and our mother finishes doing the laundry in the next room or something.