Sunday, May 30, 2004
It's April, it's Banff, a Wednesday night. I head down to a local bar for Punk Rock Dance Night. Actually it's called Black Wednesdays and it's alternative music night at the bar, but calling it Punk Rock Dance Night fools me into believing that Banff has some connection to punk.
I don't recognize anyone. It's not surprising. I notice a Black Flag t-shirt and someone wearing a Casualties patch. A few years ago I would have assumed that these people and I had something in common, tonight, here in Banff, I doubt that. I down six drinks in quick succession. They play Want by Jawbreaker, Waiting Room, Skulls, what i think is a Hot Water Music song, that Dropkick Murphys song everyone knows, and a few other songs I recognize from mixed tapes, snowboard videos, and house parties. Someone compliments me on my I-Spy t-shirt, I smile.
I leave when they start to play a song by Rammstein. I start to feel a little out of place, not to mention a wee bit drunk. I want pretty badly to feel some sort of connection to these other people inhabiting this space, but it ain't happening.
My favourite part of my time in Banff was riding my bike home after the Greyhound rolled into the Banff bus station and singing bits and pieces of songs all the way home. At that time of night I felt like I owned the streets.
"It feels good to say what I want/It feels good to tear things down"
It was a false sense of confidence. A small comfort in a town that for the first year that I had lived there had shown me more than my fair share of loneliness. I roamed the streets a lot trying to make sense of what I was trying to accomplish while in exile. There was a tree that I use to climb at night at the edge of the high school football field. It felt safe. I could remove myself from the town, even if it was only for a short time.
I never really learned to cope with being lonely in Banff until I moved in with Mike. I would go to bars, like the one that hosted 'Black Wednesday's' and hope against hope that that night would be different. I had hoped that my awkwardness would disipate and reveal my naturally charming self. I'm not sure how I imagined that would happen. I suppose I just assumed that some night I'd go out and Banff would change or I'd change and I'd feel at home with my surroundings
But it more often than not I didn't. I just never felt like I knew where I fit into this mess I stumbled into, let alone anyone else. I could never figure out how to approach people I thought I had a connection with. I just really didn't have a clue.
Someone commented a few weeks ago about how the Pavilion made people in the all ages feel too comfortable. It may have made people too comfortable, but it never made them complacent. Things were exciting, people were exciting, people felt like they had a place that was theirs. I think you can never fully understand how important places like the Pavilion are until you've felt the lack.
Last night hearing about underage kids sneak in a bar with their guitars masquerading as one of the performing bands that night (which was fucking ingenious) made me feel excited again.
I don't recognize anyone. It's not surprising. I notice a Black Flag t-shirt and someone wearing a Casualties patch. A few years ago I would have assumed that these people and I had something in common, tonight, here in Banff, I doubt that. I down six drinks in quick succession. They play Want by Jawbreaker, Waiting Room, Skulls, what i think is a Hot Water Music song, that Dropkick Murphys song everyone knows, and a few other songs I recognize from mixed tapes, snowboard videos, and house parties. Someone compliments me on my I-Spy t-shirt, I smile.
I leave when they start to play a song by Rammstein. I start to feel a little out of place, not to mention a wee bit drunk. I want pretty badly to feel some sort of connection to these other people inhabiting this space, but it ain't happening.
My favourite part of my time in Banff was riding my bike home after the Greyhound rolled into the Banff bus station and singing bits and pieces of songs all the way home. At that time of night I felt like I owned the streets.
"It feels good to say what I want/It feels good to tear things down"
It was a false sense of confidence. A small comfort in a town that for the first year that I had lived there had shown me more than my fair share of loneliness. I roamed the streets a lot trying to make sense of what I was trying to accomplish while in exile. There was a tree that I use to climb at night at the edge of the high school football field. It felt safe. I could remove myself from the town, even if it was only for a short time.
I never really learned to cope with being lonely in Banff until I moved in with Mike. I would go to bars, like the one that hosted 'Black Wednesday's' and hope against hope that that night would be different. I had hoped that my awkwardness would disipate and reveal my naturally charming self. I'm not sure how I imagined that would happen. I suppose I just assumed that some night I'd go out and Banff would change or I'd change and I'd feel at home with my surroundings
But it more often than not I didn't. I just never felt like I knew where I fit into this mess I stumbled into, let alone anyone else. I could never figure out how to approach people I thought I had a connection with. I just really didn't have a clue.
Someone commented a few weeks ago about how the Pavilion made people in the all ages feel too comfortable. It may have made people too comfortable, but it never made them complacent. Things were exciting, people were exciting, people felt like they had a place that was theirs. I think you can never fully understand how important places like the Pavilion are until you've felt the lack.
Last night hearing about underage kids sneak in a bar with their guitars masquerading as one of the performing bands that night (which was fucking ingenious) made me feel excited again.
# posted by Die Brucke @ 9:54 PM 
