March 23, 2006
A blistering hot concert
These days, I pass up the front row for the upstairs at the Vogue.

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

The Crossroads of America must not merit valuable weekend nights for national bands, causing Indy's propensity for Sunday night concerts.

But with this Midwestern-honored "school night" tradition, Love Interest and I saw the Violent Femmes last weekend.

Concerts used to begin with a little pre-partying among an interest group: drinking heavily while listening to the very music we were getting ready to hear live, only to drive home (sober, always sober) after the show, listening again.

Love Interest and I pre-partied pretty hard.

My Violent Femmes CD is living in Austin, TX with a previous boyfriend, so we listened to Wilco, cooked chicken stir-fry and took a nap on the couch until it was time to leave.

We are out of control.

Love Interest is not from Indy, and he had not been to the Vogue before meeting me; now he's there once a week (often under duress).

He asked how many times I thought I'd been there . . . 200?

I hid the truth (at least 500 times and plenty of dancing on the bar) behind the cloak of a compliment: You look really cute tonight, Love Interest.

At least 450 of the 500 times I've been at the Vogue I've stood in the front row, the most obvious place for innocent swooning.

Lately I swoon upstairs, within five feet of the bar that sells imports.

It's difficult work, vetting a show from the peanut gallery, but I was more than happy singing "Gone Daddy Gone" while squinting at band members who looked miniature, yet still young and well-fed.

One band member banged on a Peruvian drum; it looked like a ceiling tile from our vantage point.

The veteran hellions, gathered in the raucous vicinity of the Femmes, flailing their "big hands," made several attempts at establishing a threshing floor.

I was born to be in the front row, but I was never much for mosh pits; in fact, the only time I found myself within a pit's fiery pulse was at a Hole concert many moons ago.

My then boyfriend led me into the writhing heap where I tinkered with panic for approximately 22 seconds before peeling myself away from an impending heart attack.

Fear of Stupid Drunk People: The Pilot Episode.

The Femmes were fantastic, but recounting my tale at work the next day, not one person had heard of them (what . . . what?).

They asked me to sing a few lines from their most popular song.

Chuckling, and looking for an on-the-spot trapdoor, I reported: "Um, they're kind of personal."