Hey Michael, That was Cheap Trick.

Yeah, Cheap Trick played at the 9:30 Club last night, and it was a rock and roll show, and Holly and I were there to see it.

The opening band was a Brooklyn-based quartet called the Damwells. I’ve always been a sucker for a leader singer in a striped suit jacket, so you know, they had me at hello.

Furthermore, the drummer looked exactly like Husker Du era Bob Mould, and the bass player bore a most unfortunate resemblance to Carrot Top. The sound? Imagine the Replacements plus the Gin Blossoms — frenetic drumming over three-chord songs about girls. They were excellent, if you’re into that sort of thing, which I am.

Cheap Trick. OK, Wow.

First off, let me just say that it’s not really possible to review a Cheap Trick show. At least, I can’t do it. I mean, it’s Cheap Trick. I can only tell you what was cool, and then deliver a fanboy rant.

Of course it was amazing. Of course it was stupendous. Of course it was loud. Of course they played the songs we came to hear — Surrender, Dream Police, I Want You to Want Me, etc etc.

OK, Wow.

Holly and I were debating afterwards who put on a better rocknroll show, The Mooney Suzuki or Cheap Trick. She cast a vote toward Mooney Suzuki, while I chose the boys from Cheap Trick.

My reasons are these:

Holly says that I have a really good fashion sense, like a gay guy. She also says that this is, in fact, a compliment.
Thereby hangs the tale.

Friday Night was Kym’s birthday, so there was, you know, a Big Thing. This particular Big Thing was a party at a great Moroccan restaurant Soussi. We had the upstairs to ourselves which was good, because on several occasions I found myself surrounded by what should best be described as a bustling throng of well-wishers.

These sorts of parties usually run hot and burn out quickly, which is exactly what happened on Friday night, but the it did last long enough for drinks, a Korean belly-dancer, and a hooka. Yeah, it was that kind of party.

Part Two was a rock-and-roll show featuring my-very-close-and-personal-friends, The IOs, who are bona fide New York City Rock and Roll Stars. Chris showed me his membership card, the secret handshake and the whole deal. Rock and roll as usual.

The IOs played with the Washington Social Club who, as you well know, took on the mantle of “Most Rocking DC band” after the untimely demise of the Dismemberment Plan. WSC were fresh off of tour with Canada’s own Hot Hot Heat, which really showed. They were tight, ebullient, and put on a great show. As I told this guy Joe (I’ll get back to him shortly), if WSC doesn’t make you shake your ass then you don’t have an ass to shake. At one point during the show — the point which not coincidentally coincided with Marty Social ripping in a spirited version of “Modern Trance” I was jumping up and down on a folding chair, fighting gravity at every turn. It was a good show and if the Washington Social Club comes to your town, do yourself a favor — pay the man and see the rock.

But that’s not what I came to tell you about.

The opening band on Friday night were these guys Driver X. They were working this sort of rocking Soul Asylum/Goo Goo Dolls thing, and it just didn’t do it for me. Which is a shame because they seemed to be enjoying themselves — really giving their all to the crowd — and they were getting nothing back. The entire audience — with the exception of their rent-a-crowd — was standing with their collective arms folded — in a bad way. But of course, they named their band after a Japanimation cartoon character, so what did they expected. I mean, would you rock-out to a band named Bugs Bunny? I rest my case.

Anyway, there is this guy Joe (this is the part where I get back to Joe) was standing behind me with these two chicks, who I assumed were the girlfriend and the girlfriend’s friend, as this is the natural grouping in this sort of situation.

For some reason I’m The Guy People Talk To At Shows, a notion evidenced by the fact that Joe starts bitching to me about how bad this opening band is and how he’s going to “get the fuck out of here and go to a bar”. (Sorry Mom.)

Bitching to ME, when there are two perfectly serviceable female non-strangers flanking him Napoleon style. I gave him the cool-guy nod — which was a mistake, in retrospect — and convince him that the other two bands were awesome, which they are, so he should stay and check them out.

He did.

After The IOs set, I start street-teaming the crowd, handing out their CD and seeing how people liked that sound. I ran into Joe and the Chicks and start polling them about The IOs. It was very loud in the club, so we were standing in a very tight circle, talking about this that and the third, when Joe leans in close to me and asks, “Am I the only gay guy in the club?”

This sort of thing happens to me all the time. I think that maybe gay guys just assume that any guy with messy hair, blue jeans and a black leather jacket is gay, and therefore wants to “be their boyfriend”. Altought this may generally be the case, let me remind you that the Fonz also had messy hair, blue jeans, and a black leather jacket, and we ALL KNOW how much he loved the ladies.

Anyway, back to Joe. I tell Joe that he may indeed be the only gay guy in the bar. He was not deterred by this statement, and proceeds to tell me that he’s new in town and is looking for a boyfriend, and that if I knew anyone who was looking for a boyfriend that maybe they should give him a call. He completed this… unholy sales pitch … by sliding his hand down my side and slipping his card into my jacket pocket.

I did the sensible thing. I walked over to the jukebox, kicked it until “Rock Around the Clock” came on, asked Arnold for a cheeseburger, then found the cutest girl in the room and kissed her hard.