rock@dartmouth

I was uncharacteristically nervous before I gave my speech. I always believe in doing things a different way -- that is, if you have to persuade people, do it without letting them know they're being persuaded; speak to them about things that appeal to them, rather than their social consciousness; present yourself as both vulnerable and strong. I talked about how Antigone was draining, how I was emotionally exhausted and no matter how much support I got from the cast it was still a sad play, and all I wanted to do was to have fun, to find the joy in getting involved, to put my passions to a positive end. My final sentence traipsed toward its weighty, inevitable conclusion; everyone turned to look at the girl who was supposed to speak next, my competitor. She shook her head and gestured at me. "She wants it more than me. Take my name off the list." And so, by default, I was elected Historian for Friday Night Rock.

Friday Night Rock is a student organization that's been around since does-anyone-know-when that works to bring local and student bands to play at Fuel, a mini concert-venue in the basement of Collis, the student center. We have four to five shows a term; in the past there's been Of Montreal, Girl Talk, The Dodos -- bands that, as my high-school literature teacher used to say, "If you know, you know." There's a happy pretension about us, a pride in our lack of universal recognition, as though being known to only a small group on campus makes our work art rather than culture.

"I think people are starting to see as as more accessible," our finance manager began. "Like we're less pretentious and more people want to come to our shows."
"Unacceptable! Tighter pants, guys -- what are you thinking? We need to be MORE pretentious!" our general manager sent the room alight with laughter.

As Historian, my main job is to take photos at shows. I love photography -- I've always believed that a picture can capture something about a moment that your eyes alone or a video could never; something about halting time for that moment when the shutter flashes its metonymous sound leaves the image you've created all the more incredible for never being able to happen again. Despite my artistic confidence, I was anxious to prove myself, especially after the absurd means by which I'd been elected. I walked into Fuel, camera in hand, and began taking simple pictures of the first band setting up. Not bad, I thought, and easy enough given that they're standing still. Something was missing in them, though; even though I had photographed the band, I hadn't captured them -- they were setting up equipment; I was there to see them play.

Song after song I pushed to the front of the audience, shoved up against the speakers or stepped on by those behind me, but closer to the band than anyone, down on one knee, my face and the lens tilted reverently towards the light and holding just long enough to get them at the peak of their movement, at the little breaks at crescendo. The second band gave me more room for experimentation: the lead singer was anarchic and uncontainable, the bassist brooding and quiet, the keyboardist bent so low over his instrument one thought he was whispering secrets to the black and white through the silver noise of the room. I spent time on each of them and then tried to capture their interactions; I lost myself in my task and it was incredible.

I uploaded the pictures, picked the best 30 out of 200, and sent them to the booking manager. He wrote back.

"Incredible! These are some of the best Friday Night Rock photos I've ever seen."

[see them here.]