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Do You Know About the After-Show? by Jake Day

I’m awake and it’s Sunday and I think it’s around noon. The sun is spilling through the window across the room and onto the dining room table. All of the empty beer bottles splayed across that half of the room are mercifully absorbing the harsh bright of morning, keeping me in the shade of the drawn curtains—stained by a weekend’s worth of filth—that are clutching the windows on the side of the house that I fell asleep on. I’ve taken my face out of the crevice of the linty couch I slept in and pointed it towards the Ryan Cabrera poster, framed and hanging over the fireplace, that reminds me that the kids who own this house who I’ve barely talked to—one with dreadlocks and strict plans to go the farmer’s market on Saturday mornings, the other with cocaine eyes and official looking Macrock t-shirts—are hilarious. I chuckle, then immediately wince when I try to move. My neck feels like I’d been doing a frightened ostrich impression for the last month, my arms are covered in bruises, my nose feels like I should check in the mirror to see if it’s bent, my ankles are raw and scraped, and my wrist has a rash where the paper wristband that I had been sweating into all weekend used to be. I can smell myself over the embers in the ashtray, my clothes are at least ten percent baggier than when I put them on three days ago, and there’s some unidentifiable crust leering on my collar; I’m pretty sure that cold I had before I left for Macrock, a two day music festival in the sneakily cool town of Harrisonburg, VA has evolved into a full-on sinus infection. This is a general state of un-health and I should go to back to sleep or to a hospital or maybe just a plastic surgeon because my nose really feels like something I could measure with a protractor and when I exhale it sounds like blowing out of a straw with a little bit of crushed ice stuck in it. But the only place I can see myself is buried between sweaty shoulders underneath crumbling ceilings and in front of loud speakers. Diarrhea Planet was really fucking good last night. After arriving in Harrisonburg, I pick up my wristband from the Court House Theater ($18 for the entire weekend, unreal) and walk something like thirty steps before I’m at one of the hosting venues, The Artful Dodger. On the outside is a gate, a line, and an apologetic looking volunteer who can’t let anybody in yet. There’s a canopy that shades the open air seating atop platforms which flank either side of 16

Vinyl Tap Spring 2013  

WCWM 90.9-FM's semesterly music journal, featuring concert write ups, album reviews, and more.

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