Reflection

At 11 pm this past Sunday, I exited DC’s 9:30 Club fairly deaf, slightly blinded, totally hoarse, extremely parched and mostly happy. I’d just seen one of my favorite bands, The New Pornographers, play a spirited show to a packed house.

I was feeling pretty cool, frankly, as I strode toward the U Street Metro station in my dark shirt, black jeans and boots. My hair was looking rebel-long in these shaved-head times. While I’d forgotten to wear my favorite clunky, retro glasses, the round Lennon-esque ones had sufficed quite nicely, it seemed to me.

Except, then I caught my reflection in the window of a bustling bar. I saw in front of me a diverse array of young hipsters, both al fresco on the patio and seated behind the glass. But there on the pane, I was not looking particularly fresh and happening. In fact, I was looking like I’d happened quite some time ago. If then. I was looking like what happens with age.

The truth, of course, was that none of those relative kids at the show I’d just left had exactly mistaken me for one of their own. While I haven’t yet succumbed to middle-age spread and against all odds have kept my hair, wrinkle lines and graying temples abundantly tell my chronological tale. Though I always hope twenty- and thirtysomethings will size me up and significantly lowball my age, I find they’re damnably accurate whenever I foolishly press the issue with acquaintances in that demographic. In fact, my only dependably affirming audience in this respect is the ancient-senior set with whom I socialize as a weekly volunteer at an assisted living facility. But those ladies tend to equate easy mobility with youth, and they consider my successful use of the TV remote to be the high-tech wizardry of a wunderkind.

I had, in fact, spotted at least a few peers in the 9:30 Club crowd. An older bald guy here, an older fat guy there. I’d stacked up pretty well, I thought. And anyway, didn’t I deserve some credit for even knowing who The New Pornographers are, let alone developing a genuine love for their intricate power pop stylings? Hadn’t I been an early evangelist of this suggestively named Canadian octet, now beloved by rock critics as an indie-music powerhouse? Hadn’t I voluntarily come out to play on a work night and secured a plum spot near the stage by arriving early and staying right where I was? Why, I’d foregone even a single beer so as not to risk displacement after a bathroom break. Shouldn’t all of that count for something?

Well, honestly? No, I answered myself as I passed through the subway turnstile. I mean, had my ability to mouth the lyrics to “Sing Me Spanish Techno,” “Mass Romantic” and “Sweet Talk, Sweet Talk” at that evening’s show established my street cred, somehow? Had my screams and applause been evidence of youthful vitality? Had my stoicism before the show and during breaks bespoken my timeless sense of hip?

To the contrary, I’d felt stupid mouthing the lyrics, but I’d wanted all the (zero) people who’d been watching me to see that I really knew the songs. I’d been stoic only for lack of company, as well as my crotchety distaste for cell phones and their social networking options. I’d screamed at the band mainly to reassure myself that I could make audible sounds after all that silence. And my clapping had made me self-conscious, as it always does. Had I raised my arms above my head, concert style, I’d have had that weird hand-stump disparity thing going on for all to see. So, I’d clapped with my arms in front of me. But my clap doesn’t and can’t match the volume of hand-on-hand applause. It’s always struck me as a little sad.

Not that I regretted the trip to the 9:30 Club. As I rode the Green Line train to my transfer point at Gallery Place, I felt good about having heard and seen a few hours of great music up close. I liked the fact that I’d made the effort on a Sunday night. And it wasn’t as if I was wiped out, either. I’d stayed through the final encore and felt considerably more wired than tired.

Riding the Red line train back to my car at Tenleytown, I sort of regretted that I hadn’t bought myself a New Pornographers T-shirt at the club. But then I again saw my reflection in the glass. I had to wonder if such a garment, arguably hip and quirky on a younger man, might simply encourage mothers to hold their small children closer as I passed by.

I got home at midnight. Lynn was asleep upstairs. I stayed up until almost 1:30 working on the New York Times Magazine crossword puzzle. By that time the cats’ initial enthusiasm for my surprise appearance had long since waned, and they, too, were dozing. I was finally ready to turn in myself. My ears no longer were ringing, and my throat had been soothed by a glass of water. It would be time to get up for work in just a few hours. There, I’d tell my office buddies about my big night out.

“Kind of cool,” I thought, turning out the light.