So the show starts at 9:30, or what?

J. Freedom du Lac--enjoyably monikered music writer, chronicler of culture, Sacramento Bee alum, and current Washington Post quasi-metro scribe--had a great feature in the Post Mag last weekend on Washington D.C.'s own 9:30 Club. Over its 30 years, the 9:30 has risen to near legendary status in the mid-Atlantic, although it's hard for me to grasp its legacy outside of town. The club was one of the first non-mom's-basement venues in the country to allow all ages shows, a choice that opened up the DC rock scene, legitimized local punk rock, and helped launch DC hardcore, most famously via club regulars Bad Brains and Minor Threat.

Of course that was all well before my time. I didn't move to Maryland until the club, originally at 930 F st NW, moved to its current location near Howard U. I work near the old location now. Today 930 F is a pretty bland building facade, with neighbors that include a clothing store selling Peruvian knits, a chocolate-focused restaurant, and a fantastic cheesery--Cowgirl Creamery. Not sure what the old DC heads would think of a fantastic cheesery. The new club (new only relative to the old club) is a fantastic space. Acts that play ampitheaters and athletic facilities in other towns opt to do the 1200-capacity 9:30 here. The sound is top drawer and the balcony provides an enviable view of the stage. I grew up going to the Troc and TLA in Philly (both alright spots, to be sure), but the 9:30 defines a goddamn professional venue. It's a long way from its humble beginnings as a ratty nightclub, and some claim that efficiency and cleanliness have pared away some of its original rough charm. But it's always been a great place to see a show.

You won't get too much out of J. Freedom's piece if you're a nerd and you already own Our Band Could Be Your Life and Dance of Days and watched 930 F Street at its first public showing. But it's a good excuse for posting some solid images and vids. After the jump: Minor Threat, G.I., Minutemen, etc. etc.

Blurry chossom festival.

The cherry blossoms are out in D.C., which means, among other things, the weather's OK enough for me to walk to a bar in Logan Circle. Churchkey (1337 14th St NW, elite former site of Hamburger Mary's) has been open for awhile, and all reviews of it might as well close with "You know who would really dig this place? Pete." It's got a long and ever-changing beer list, a dark but inviting bar, gussied-up hamburgers, and helpful but unobsequious staff. On the page of my moleskine listing criteria for excellent neighborhood bar, these all appear. On the back of that page is a list of criteria that prevent bars from being good is "hell of far away from a metro stop," "crowded even on weeknights," and "pretentious (crowd)." Churchkey, I'd heard, was pushing it on all three. You can't entirely blame the bar for its patrons, of course. Hey, I like some Phish songs.

Photography lesson 1: Take photos with adequate light. Lesson 2: Sober.

So a dude and I walked in the other night after work. We sampled a couple cask ales--the Paradox Smokehead, a beer aged in scotch barrels that was like liquid peat smoke, and Allagash Black, which I've had before but which benefited from the cask ale treatment. The warmer temperature opened up the roast notes in the Belgian-style stout. Borderline fragrant. I also tried the brat burger--made from ground beef, pork, and veal; served with sauerkraut--which was delicious but will be a rare indulgence for me at $16. You can drink and eat there for less, though. Several menu items are under $10 and a handful of draft beers are $5 (the best bargain cask ale was from Oliver's in Baltimore and was $6, although sample pours can be had for less). Our server was informed, patient, and busy. Speakers played Pitchfork-friendly indie rock (I heard the Pains). We tried other beers, too; the menu is organized less by esoteric style than by taste--crisp, roast, hops. A pint of Victory Prima Pils reminded me that it's my favorite beers--drinkable in any season, never too heavy or too light.

As the time passed and the sun set, the light through the floor-to-ceiling front windows dimmed. The crowd got more crowded, and people hovered over our bar table as I signed the check. The positives definitely outweigh the negatives at Churchkey, at least in the early evening. Will return, but I may eat a handful of pretzels beforehand so I'm not tempted to order another $16 burger.

Snowbatical.

Four or five days without electricity is a kick-in-the-head reminder of the absurd luxury of everyday life.

I know snow photos in the DC area are a dime a dozen right now, and cell phone snow photos even less special, but here's my house. Note--porch light is nearly imperceptibly on. HELL YES.

SS Tweedcontrol

On Sunday morning I rode my bike (trusty; also, rusty) down to the Silver Spring metro (got called an asshole by a blind lady, which was both baffling and depressing, but that’s a story for another time) took the elevator there for the first time, and wheeled onto the platform only to see another dude in a tweed cap and tie. I nodded, he nodded. What we left unsaid: tweed ride.

Yes, the DC tweed ride. 300+ people in various states of tweed, released in small packs over the course of a blazing November morning to make DC streets a little scratchier. I saw dashed-off thrift store outfits; I saw perfectly tailored tweed suits; I saw yards and yards of tweed; I saw a good amount of general old-timey dress that wasn’t really tweed at all. There was a lot of imbalance in the amount of work someone spent on their bike and the amount spent on their tweeds. Some really incredible bikes; fewer really memorable tweed ensembles.


Photo: randomduck.

I’m a dabbler in both tweed and bikes so I wore a tweed cap and jacket with a wool tie and jeans. I think I looked sufficiently professorial without looking overly affected (a sliding scale in this crowd). I rode my 1980s Fuji road bike, which has been tuned up but otherwise not updated or fixed up by me—both a point of pride and a little shameful, as many of the other riders seemed to have built or rebuilt their vintage bikes into clean-riding urban machines of hipness.

Events like this veer dangerously toward self-parody—the media coverage seems to have both overstated the importance of the trend and smirked at it. The smirk was probably more justified than the pop culture psychoanalysis. Judging by the mix of people and the overwhelming smiliness of the whole thing, I don’t think many were taking themselves too seriously.

The ride itself was fantastic. I rarely get over to Capitol Hill and the neighborhoods were stunning and sun-dappled. Eastern Market was bustling. The capitol and federal buildings downtown gleamed. We tried a victory lap around Dupont, but the traffic was a little anticlimactic.

After sampling the punch at Marvin (for charity, of course), I red lined it back to Silver Spring and put the bike back in the shed, where it will probably spend most of the next 6 months, as it’s too dark to ride when I get home daily and weekends are full of bike ride (and hike, and reading, and general sit-down) pre-empting obligations. Dandies and Quaintrelles billed this as the semi-annual tweed ride, so sometime in April, about when I’m retiring the tweed to the back of the closet, it will be time for another ride to celebrate woolens, bikes, and DC.

Thanks to the organizers and I’ll be sure not to miss another DC tweed ride.

I may have been the only person there not taking pictures, which is just as well as I'm a terrible photographer. Great photos from the Washingtonian, as well as various photogs on flickr. You can spot me here and in a couple of photos by randomduck, who apparently led our peloton.

Now we can see.

I subscribe to the Jay Reatard school of rock, in which if you have a slow song on a record, you speed it up live. And if you have a fast song, you speed it up live. The Thermals aren't down. Hutch Harris, Kathy Foster, and the drummer/hype man (dude stood up and gestured to the audience every time they played a particularly rockin' song) put on a good show though--mostly killer, some filler. They started out very strong with Returning to the Fold, the second best cut on BBM. I own the entire Thermals catalog, and I was still a little bored once or twice.

They played both Saints and Sappy, which fit their style well--I may have been the only person singing along to the lyrics (something about a laundry room).

Here's your future.

The Thermals play tonight at the Black Cat DC. Surprised this one's not sold out yet. $13, doors at 8, Thermals onstage at 10:30. I'm sure they'll play some material off their righteously catchy 2006 record, the Body, the Blood, the Machine, as well as new stuff from Now We Can See, which apparently is about death. But they're so upbeat.

Apparently, they've been doing a couple of covers live (not always)--a Breeders tune and Nirvana's Sappy, otherwise known as Verse Chorus Verse and originally released on every Columbia House subscriber's favorite alternative comp, No Alternative, a record I both think is awesome and am kind of embarrassed for (much like the entire 1990s).

The Breeders -- Saints

A new 8-story building of the most modern type.

21st and C Streets N.W., Washington, DC.


This is a shot from Shorpy, the 100-year-old photo blog. This one's actually 84 years old. Looking at a map, the apartments stand on land now occupied by the Department of State, a few hundred yards from the Vietnam Veterans Memorial.