photo by Jon Augustine

2012 was a banner year at the Bender household. We laughed, we cried, punched stage monitors, threw beer cans at the band, danced with reckless abandon, stared morosely into nothing.

Music makes the people come together. It tears us apart. A Facebook status I never got around to posting because it’s just too absolute is this: Music is my family. In January of this year, I flippantly said to a friend, “If I ever managed a band, it would be yours.” The next day I found myself sitting at the Creation Station (most northwestern booth at O’Rourke's Tavern) with a couple guys that would shape my year in music. Thanks for that, Universe Contest. We’ll conquer this shit yet.

The moment when I forgot how to breathe

A good friend had just been hit with some life-altering news. My afternoon was like any other, busy with small errands and emails. An offer came my way to head to Omaha to check out St. Vincent at Slowdown. With a hangover yet to wear off from the night before, I threw caution to the wind anyway and said, “Why not?” Best decision of the year, probs.

Shearwater opened the show and kept me occupied. One of the guys was from Okkervil River, and their second song sounded like it might be a Radiohead cover, but was an original. I was irked. Luckily enough, I had about a dozen friends that all met up at the center of the balcony section, so we gabbed a bit and dug in to a great batch of chips and salsa. In a scene reminiscent of Entourage, I learned that one friend had permission from his girlfriend to leave her for Annie Clark should the chance ever arise. I now know why.

photo by Hilary Stohs-Krause

Five years prior, I’d seen St. Vincent open for The National on the exact same stage. It was early in her career, she was a bit pensive, and I have to admit I don’t have a ton of patience for looping. At the time, she was traveling solo, with no band to help bring the noise. I’d grade that set a C+ if I’m being nice.

But on May 14 of this year, worlds collided. Wars ended. We landed on Mars or some shit. Annie Clark’s band was a beast. The three-piece backing ensemble played their respective instruments so effortlessly it was like watching Michael Phelps swim in the 2008 Olympics.

As amazing as the band was, Annie Clark, please never speak to me. I will pass out and be taken to the hospital. I do not have health insurance.

photo by Hilary Stohs-Krause

Surrounded by friends, pondering mortality, having no awareness of “Strange Mercy” and enjoying my chips and dip, I expected nothing more than to be appreciative of some previously unfamiliar tunes. 

It was about seven seconds into the first song when my lungs stuttered. The footstop for her guitar rack acted as a brake for her dancing fantastic. The theramin sauntered off to the side, knowing it would be useless until the encore. The bassist smiled knowing we didn’t yet realize we were fucked. The next thing I remember, I looked up at my friends to see if they were seeing what I was seeing and they were all laughing at me. My jaw was slack, sweat dripped from my forehead. I hadn’t blinked for four songs. I catch my buddy Jon’s eye, and he simply says, “I know…”

At that point, I was still faintly panting. Alexandra Matzke is one of my favorite photographers. She caught the moment I forgot how to breathe.

photo by Alex Matzke

If I ever learn how to be that confident, I will have succeeded in life. The bar has been set. I really hope I haven’t already seen the most amazing concert I’ll ever see. But perhaps I have. 

Singing the ABCs

It’s been a minute. As the years pass, my friends give me more and more grief about being an old man. I can’t remember the last time I sang the alphabet song. Well, until the Maha festival this year, that is. I was damn excited, having loved Garbage as a SoCal teenager not cool enough to like, say, Green Day and The Offspring. Beyond that, Hear Nebraska favorite Frontier Ruckus was in the house, not to mention Eli Mardock, UUVVWWZ, Conduits, Universe Contest and perhaps the crowd’s favorite performance of the night in Icky Blossoms. 

photo by Daniel Muller

Sunset came late, it being August and all, but I tip my hat to Maha’s organizers for recognizing that when the sun goes to char the other side of the earth is that exact moment when the party starts. A month after dropping their debut, Icky’s members knew they had us in the palm of their hand, and that was even before they brought Willa on stage. 

Saber is at his best with short hair and lacking in flail. Sarah is the hottest nerd that has ever said hello to me. Derek knows he’s great at what he does. I love his smile. The stage is on a hillside with the first 10 to 15 rows of people swaying and struggling with the slickness of the rain-soaking incline. New friends were made. Actually, I can’t say it better than Lindsey Lu did on Maha's Facebook page a few days ago:

“I moshed on that little hill that goes up to the stage. It was pretty steep and slippery so I kept catching the person in front of me and then the person behind me would catch me. It was like we were very sweaty, friendly dominoes. It was awesome. The people around me were lost in the Icky Blossoms music and I couldn't help but be lost too. Every once in awhile we, as total strangers, would look over at each other and grin. And it didn't feel cheesy.”

photo by Daniel Muller

Sweaty dominoes, I dig the concept. My No. 2 musical moment of 2012 came when the band ended its set and people were screaming for more. Derek entered stage center carrying his young daughter, Willa. The crowd bellowed as he inched to the mic. Without prompting, Willa belted out the best version of the ABCs I’ve ever heard. As the crowd sang along, I closed my eyes and recognized I was stuck in a moment I’d never forget. 

Willa, I believe your confidence rivals that of Annie Clark’s.

Ten years of fake blood, gay porn and frou frou drinks come to a close

I learn as much about music from Darren Keen as I do from anyone. Truth be told, I think if his home base was a big city like Chicago or New York, he’d be wildly successful. Instead, he’s stuck with us, which is quite fine by him, because as he remembers every day, Nebraska introduced him to Lacey. For a guy with a song called “Pay the Cover,” he makes sure his “manager” (Lacey) pays the cover at as few shows as possible. BURN!

Now that I have that out of the way, I was struggling to find the energy to go to The Show is the Rainbow’s last show at the Bourbon Theatre just a few weeks ago. I have Alex Jochim to thank for that. Back in the day, before Darren made out with the girl I wanted to marry at the time (not Lacey, it’s cool, Darren), all I’d heard is that he ate fake blood and perpetually dropped his pants at shows.

photo by Jon Augustine

Our relationship is about the same now as it was at the start. He was with his best friend (Jim Schroeder of UUVVWWZ), drinking a frou frou drink (no beer for Darren) and telling me about how awesome he was and why I should go see him perform. “Dude, I have this new video thing where I spliced in bits of gay porn, it’s gonna be amazing.” I went to the show. I noticed the gay porn, not sure if anyone else caught it. He hugged me after that show, a sweaty mess, and I knew he was bigger than Lincoln could ever fully respect.

Lincoln proved me wrong on Dec. 2. From the stage, Darren told a story about the shirt he was wearing (thanks, Goodwill!) and suggested his wife show the crowd her booty. When she didn’t he offered us his. The bartender gasped. Perhaps it was her first experience with DK. The show was no crazier than any other. He sashayed through the crowd, made us wonder if the table tops were about to flounder, told stories that I’d heard before and in general was full of constructed mayhem.

photo by Jon Augustine

Before his last song, he explained that he always wanted to play the song in front of a large, adoring audience (check) and fall off of a large stage backwards into the outstretched hands of a futile many (yet to be determined). The crowd salivated like Pavlov’s dogs. They wanted his sweat in their pupils. They wanted to hold, to touch, to feel the fabric of their lives.

As Keen crooned to the crowd of about 150, he scurried from end to end of the stage. The crowd mimicked, waiting for that moment they’d know what the dead weight of a Darren Keen feels like. Finally, when beginning the last verse, The Show is the Rainbow stood, back to the crowd, stared at the screen knowing this was it and tipped. The crowd didn’t topple. They surged again from left to right, from right to left, for the entirety of the verse before propping Darren back onto the stage as he sang the song's last words.

video shot and edited by Nickolai Hammar

He stood defiant of expectations, proud of the last decade and became a listener as the crowd serenaded him with a rousing version of “Happy Birthday” while his wife served cake to the masses. As at the end of the gay porn show so many years ago, Darren gave me a big hug while I bought him a cranberry vodka. Damn good cake.

The revival of KRNU 

I’ll also remember the year as the year I met Joe Teplitsky. A few years back, KRNU decided to rebrand itself, and I sickened of hearing the incessant “the new, the new, the new, KRNU” commercials on KRNU. In short, I stopped listening. Then the station happened upon this guy.

The rotation featured more and more songs by local bands! In-studios became the norm rather than the exception! Concerts were being promoted! It’s a shame students move on from working at KRNU when they graduate, but I say this to Rick Alloway (station general manager): Should you decide to retire at some point, I have Joe’s number. 

Quick hits

— The Betties singing “Run” at Lincoln Calling.

— Jon Dell’s ass chaps.

— Radiohead performing “Supercollider” in Kansas City.

— Saturdays at Stella talking with Angie Norman about everything but music.

— Tim Carr delivering a Universe Contest CD to Bob Kerrey.

— ZZ Ward at SXSW.

— Getting iced by Life is Cool.

— RIP to The Machete Archive, Somasphere, The Show is the Rainbow and Son of 76 and the Watchmen.

— “Buckley sucks” T-shirts.

— House of Ledosha for the lyric “I’ll make you wetter than the Everglades.”

— Drum circles outside of Jake’s.

— Conduits covering Beck’s “The Golden Age.”

— Tilly and the Wall: “I want to fuck it up!”

— Mud wrestling on First Friday.

— Quoting American Beauty.

It’s been real, folks. Cheers to 2013, because as you know, my girl likes to party all the time.

Jeremy Buckley wishes he wrote for Grantland, instead he’ll just try to emulate the style, footnotes excluded. Macaroni and cheese w/ bacon pizza recently replaced green bean casserole as his favorite food. Reach him at fastorangebuckley@gmail.com.

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