10. 'On the Ground' (Part II): Serendipities

(Continued from Chronicle 9. ‘On the Ground’ (Part I): Serendipities)

The Southgate House Revival is housed in the Grace Methodist Episcopal Church. It was built in 1866, right at the end of the Civil War. The tornado of 1915 destroyed its bell tower, and it was never replaced. Another tornado would damage its structure in 1986. Its interior was eventually remodeled into three rooms for hosting different events and concerts. Today it is the perfect combination of a music venue, a bar, and a dance hall where you can enjoy its wonderfully friendly staff.

When we reached the temple, an enormous black iron gate opened before us like two great jaws inviting us in. Seth, Jeff, and I entered the sanctuary through one of the side entrances. Just past the small portico we came upon a young guy sitting on a stool, watching us expectantly. He was the doorman, in charge of collecting admission for one of the rooms; luckily for us, though, the event was free, so we got in without paying

Just to the left of where the young man sat, an opening led to a spiral staircase that climbed to a second floor. I was left wondering where it might lead, but at that moment I was with my two new friends and it was hardly the time to come across as fussy right off the bat. Moving straight ahead, the narrow corridor forked into a ‘T’. To the right, another hallway opened into a medium-sized room called The Lounge, which was surely where the priest once prepared to celebrate Mass; in its place now lived a pool table, small tables with chairs, and a fine bar with a big glass-front refrigerator holding an extraordinarily varied assortment of beers. Everything faced a small wooden stage, perfect for enjoying a good acoustic or electric set.

The other branch, however, the one splitting off to the left, led to a narrow set of stairs flanked by a door. Behind it hid the crown jewel: the Sanctuary room, set in the old central nave of what had once been a beautiful church and is now one of the best spaces for concerts and shows in all of Kentucky. It was enormous and magnanimous. It must have measured roughly thirty meters wide by seventy long, but the scene my eyes were witnessing left me beside myself with wonder: a concert behind the temple portico, with people everywhere drinking, chatting, laughing, dancing. What I had so often imagined experiencing inside a building like this was now becoming real.

Purple, white, and red lights were cast onto the walls of that curious space, with no way of knowing for certain where they came from. This created an atmosphere as warm as it was ghostly, as intimate as it was mysterious. Once again, the play of opposites grew ever more evident, adding to the subtle symbiosis that the religious wove with the pagan.

the play of opposites grew ever more evident, adding to the subtle symbiosis that the religious wove with the pagan.

Beneath the high gabled ceilings, acoustic panels strategically distributed throughout the structure kept the sound from bouncing around, delivering astonishing acoustics. Five great pointed arches in the Gothic style shared the weight of the entire roof, ending in small flying buttresses that melted into the lower flanks of both walls. From each arch hung long chains holding cylindrical medieval-style lamps, restoring some of its original liturgical look. The room was flanked by beautiful stained-glass windows that served as a focal point. At the same time, modern iron rods suspended across the width of the hall held the spotlights that gave light and life to the modest stage.

It stood at the far end of the nave, right behind the church facade, in what had once been its original entrance. There, two drum kits, several keyboards on their stands, a rack of five guitars, mic stands, and several columns of big amplifiers and monitors completed the scene.

They had everything set for the live show. Their sound techs plus the lighting crew, the bar service, the deejays plus the rest of the staff. All operating silently and in coordination, like ants on a hot August night.

The bar counter stood facing the stage though well away from it, right beneath the old pipe organ that the little cathedral still preserves. Finally, two gigantic white ducts ran the whole length of the ceiling, blasting out powerful gusts of cold air and turning the room into a far more pleasant and relaxed place.

The three of us made our way into the great hall and posted up in front of the bar, and while my two new companions chatted, I remained dumbfounded by the magnificence the whole picture conveyed as one. Everything complemented everything else, in communion, in alliance, where together they meant more than apart, coexisting peacefully with the flow of time.

Everything complemented everything else, in communion, in alliance, where together they meant more than apart, coexisting peacefully with the flow of time.

We didn't stay long, however, since there was a duo playing a folk far too mellow, and it wasn't quite our devotion. We were hoping for something more aggressive or hard-hitting, something more punk, funk, or rock; even a little EDM or electronic music wouldn't have been bad, with those 808 lows that make you vibrate all the way to the amygdala of your brain. But no problem — Seth would take care of spinning it minutes later in his car. I suggested having a few beers right there, but they had a better proposal: to have them in the Northside of Cincinnati, one of the best districts for alternative music and live shows. Surely there would be many more venues and bands playing there. I would finally get to know one of the areas I had so longed to find. –Trust in me! Trust in me, men!– Seth kept telling me. And I: –Ok! But I don’t want to be dead tomorrow!– and they laughed and laughed. I confessed to all my gods, if I had any left, and surrendered myself to the flow of fortune. My intuition levels stayed calm, and it was surely a much better plan than staying there listening to folk, alone and knowing no one. -The Northside! What a fine name for such a magical beginning!-.

–Trust in me! Trust in me, men!– Seth kept telling me. And I: –Ok! But I don’t want to be dead tomorrow!–

Seth drove a gorgeous, modern dark-blue Jeep at a mere $65,000. I had never ridden in one and it was quite an experience. I rode shotgun, thrilled beyond a little kid on a Ferris wheel. That machine's acceleration was beastly. We rolled with the windows down, and the air on my face gave me a pure sensation of freedom. With my phone I kept recording different takes as we crossed the great bridge over the Ohio River, which joins Kentucky with Cincinnati. Then the entrance to the ‘scalextric‘ of lanes you run into the moment you reach that great city. Next we plunged into downtown with its skyscrapers, leaving on our left the majestic baseball stadium of the Cincinnati Reds, as well as the football stadium of the Cincinnati Bengals. Farther on, we left the pomp of the tall buildings and grand avenues behind to pass through one of the darkest, most depressed parts of the city, full of factories and warehouses, gas stations, bridges, and vacant lots. All of it, in turn, came scored by a great musical selection pouring from the powerful speakers of that singular racer. High-definition speakers with big subwoofers, installed in the sides and even in the very roof of the vehicle, which turned it into a perfect sound box on wheels, as fast as it was safe. And so, to the beat of punk, reggae, and drum&bass, the adventure rolled on! It was quite a sensation to fly in that car with a banger like Brother Culture – Sound Killer down the avenues of Cincinnati, bound for the Northside!

It was quite a sensation to fly in that car with a banger like Brother Culture – Sound Killer down the avenues of Cincinnati, bound for the Northside!

When we arrived, Seth parked on an open lot very close to Hamilton Avenue, the main street of that splendid district, where countless venues offered their best version of partying and live music. We started at the Northside Tavern, where a band was getting ready to begin. We ordered the first round of beers and the first song started. I don't know if we even made it a minute in there, but our eyes met and said it all. It wasn't really the style — somewhat decaffeinated, experimental, and indie — that earned the failing grade, but rather the singer's voice, or timbre, which just didn't convince. In any case, we went out to the patio to finish our beers and quickly took off for another spot.

We climbed back into the four-by-four and drove past Shake It Records, a historic vinyl shop well known throughout the city. And thank goodness we changed bands, because what came next would be the cherry on top of the night.

We walked into the Comet, the last bar of that excursion. With a weekly calendar packed with concerts, we were in luck that Friday. Right as you opened the door, off to the right lay the room and a stage with a wide glass front facing the street, through which you could watch the bands from outside. At that very moment a band was getting ready to start the show.

Jeff ordered me a Zombie Dust, a beer whose name I would come to understand later on. We stepped outside, they rolled a few cigarettes, and we came back in a few minutes later.

Once inside the room I had the chance to exchange a few words with a new Nick, one of the members of the band, who handled the keyboard and string instruments. When he learned where I was from, he was utterly fascinated and suggested grabbing a drink after the show to keep talking, since he spoke a smattering of Portuguese and Spanish.

The band called themselves A Former Friend, and what they played was not only catchy and quite rhythmic but also very interesting for the versatility of the instruments they wove in, even within a single song — the keyboard, the harmonica, the banjo, the mandolin, and even a melodica, an instrument that always reminded me of the bewitching version in which Faith No More reinterprets one of the pieces that composer John Barry wrote for the legendary Midnight Cowboy.

and even a melodica, an instrument that always reminded me of the bewitching version in which Faith No More reinterprets one of the pieces that composer John Barry wrote for the legendary Midnight Cowboy.

The moment the first song began, I knew right away they would not disappoint. There were four of them and they sounded tight, on time, and full of charisma. Their genre I might label alternative country rock with deep folk roots and glimmers of blues and punk. Granted, one song is worth a thousand labels, but their style, together with the gruff, deep voice of Toby, the vocalist, instantly reminded me of certain tracks from the soundtracks of From Dusk Till Dawn and Pulp Fiction.

Enjoying the show from the front row was as experiential as it was evocative. Feeling so close to them was communicative enough for me to say that I truly felt that interaction between musicians and spectator. In fact, something very magical happened. It turns out that during one of the songs Toby, the singer, dipped his hand into a glass of nearly frozen water and right away, by way of baptism, went about sprinkling the consecrated droplets on those of us lucky enough to be there to receive them. Between the muggy heat and the thrill of having found the best band of the night, those ‘blessed tears’ caressed me like an energizing balm of ice. I felt it as my first American baptism, one I neither asked for nor sought yet found right there, a sign of good omen and welcome on what was only my second day in North America and my first in the Northside.

those ‘blessed tears’ caressed me like an energizing balm of ice. I felt it as my first American baptism

A Former Friend. On the floor you can spot the chilly glass of water that moments later served as a baptismal chalice.

During the performance came the last and most magical serendipity of the night. A girl with extremely short hair was dancing in front of the band in such an original way that I ended up entranced, first by her dancing, then by her hair, and later by her name. I kept asking myself how it was possible that in just the three or four hours we had been out, so many coincidences and accidental discoveries could occur: friends, concerts, and her.

Aware of how unattainable the conquest would be, I let myself go with the free will of the moment and started dancing near her. First through glances, then through some involuntary brush of contact, and finally through her voice at the bar. The cocktail of alcohol and music helped me shed both shyness and overthinking, leaving me spontaneous and at ease in a dance that led me to aspire to something more than mere desire. Complicity and understanding were all I wanted from that night, the night I met Lexi.

When the show ended I congratulated all the members, especially Toby and Nick D’Olimpio, with whom I ended up having a few ‘Amaros‘ at the bar, an herbal liqueur quite similar to ‘Amaretto‘ that finished hammering away at my head. I liked his hat and the bohemian look he carried. His face reminded me a great deal of Mikael Akerfeldt, the singer of Opeth, but that already fell within my more personal associations. We spent a while trading opinions on music, instruments, and styles. We exchanged Instagram handles to stay in touch and even talked about a possible collaboration weaving flamenco chords in with ukulele, something quite attractive and promising. But suddenly, just when our conversation was at its most interesting, Lexi came up to the bar with one of her friends to order something. The closeness of our bodies was such that I lost the thread of the fine talk I had been keeping up with Nick until then. I had nothing to lose, since I might never see her again, so with the best accent I could muster I asked her if she was from the Northside, and her voice ended up bewitching me like a siren's song. We struck up a chat that lasted about as long as a popsicle lasts in the desert. The bar lights came on like a glare in the night announcing the end of the evening, and I didn't even have time to ask her for any further way to reach her.

Seth drove me to the hotel, where I fell face-first onto the bed. The dizziness I was carrying was so sublime that I didn't even have the strength to take off my shoes. I stayed like that for some twenty minutes, as I recall, weightless, silent, with a single name on my mind, utterly defeated — and shortly after, in front of the toilet bowl, settling my accounts.

All in all, it was an atypical, serendipitous, and musical end to the night, with toasts and images I now keep only in the retina of my memory.

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Last Dance

Continued in the next chronicle:

11. At the Comet: ‘The Mortals’ Final Show