A send-up of things I love

There was a time, not too long ago, that I made a habit of popping in earplugs, descending into a dirty, dimly lit basement, and basking in the innard-pulsating tunes of basement rock.

Not quite punk, and not really grunge. You wouldn't call it a concert, although you generally pay to get in and stand in front of a band while they perform. It sort of defied a label, but I've heard it called "noise rock", where noise itself is an instrument. And of course you would drink beer, usually from a keg, usually in a red plastic cup, always cheap. It was beautiful.

When my basement-thriving friends moved - to Brooklyn, to Connecticut, to Milwaukee, and to Israel, because you were wondering - I lost my connection to their world. It wasn't my world, which was painfully clear at every show. But they let me know when and where the shows were, and they are good friends.

So when I was invited, by way of Facespace, to a show at the Court Tavern, I said hell yes. How could I not? Sure, I'd be missing Jay #1's birthday, but that's mostly because he hadn't picked up his phone when I dialed the wrong number. What a good friend I am.

The show was great, the triumphant return of the Milwaukee expat and an unexpected mini high school reunion. I drank, I chatted, I enjoyed. And, in my head, I blogged.

Thus and therefore, I submit to you, my esteemed readership, my thoughts on how noise rock shows and bike races are pretty much the same.

These guys were good at this whole music thing. They had clearly spent hours a day practicing, and their technique was impressive. It didn't matter if they were using knock-off Stradocasters or superfancy carbon-fiber gadgetry. Proficiency is hard-earned in this world, and cannot be bought.

Obviously, I'm excluding Time Trials from this comparison, but that's okay, because Time Trials are not at all rock and roll.

The sets were fantastic, building to a crescendo, and maybe with a softer denouement, if the band so chose. You could appreciate that, or you could enjoy the melody. Or the way the cacophony is woven into the melody. There are... nuances. Much in the same way as the rush of the pack rushing toward a prime, a team pulling their sprinter to the front, or a single rider's charge through the field are all worthy of attention. There's beauty in it, if you know what to look for.

Standing in the crowd, I looked around at a familiar sight. I saw faces I recognized, even if we'd never met, because people come and go, but the scene never really changes. Throw in some caution tape, and you'd have yourself a bike race. The crowd - mostly white, and mostly male - were sweating and happy. They were skinny, and they wore the t-shirts they'd gotten at previous events. Many had already performed earlier. As far as I could tell, nobody had wandered in... everybody knew someone who was playing, by blood or friendship, or they'd already played. They all seemed to aspire to bigger things, to hope to be discovered and turn their hobby into a profession, but none seemed to be delusional about it.

We were as close to the action as we dared stand, for fear of catching a broken drumstick or an errant guitar. We drank cheap beer. We heckled.

Which reminds me... 'cross is coming.