NADA SURF
with Say Hi to Your Mom

Bimbo's 365 Club

October 20th

by David Gulbis

It was still early when the show ended, so we headed over to Dino and Robbie's place, "the Swamp." "We" is Gina, Tim, and myself, driving from Bimbo's 365 Club in the Volvo Tim borrowed from his mom. "The buildings in San Francisco are so big," Tim says, and Gina and I giggle after the blank silence that follows. Tim has a habit of awkward tangents, or "conversation killers" as Dino calls them, and Gina and I yell in unison, "Timmmmm-berrrrrr!" after each one. The city's infamous fog coats our car and I'm drawing baby feet on the back window as Gina sings to the Violent Femmes way too loud. We stop at Sunshine Corner Market, and Tim gets us beer because he looks the oldest. The cold night air is a presence, like a fourth member of our party, who we laugh and talk with all the same.

Driving through the city never gets old; I always feel like the streets are new each time. It makes me think of Say Hi to Your Mom, tonight's opening band. They craft these fresh but familiar pop songs, where nothing is unexpected but everything remains welcome. Like how Oak is always after Fell when traveling south, the chorus always follows the verse. In the way that traffic always gets worse when nearing the 80, each song is a build-up to the bridge. But unfortunately, just like that disarming quiet that occurs when the engine and radio shut off, each song felt too short, like it hadn't yet reached it's destination. We all stretch as we exit the car, each secretly wishing we could have just kept driving.

Robbie buzzes us in, and we bounce up the narrow staircase, hearing Screaming Trees echoing from the stereo above. The Swamp is always packed with kids from our school, but tonight there's a lot of faces I don't recognize. We make our way to the kitchen and toss our beer in the fridge when Robbie bear-hugs Tim from behind. "TIMBO!!!!" he shouts with drunken glee, and we laugh as they wrestle with each other on the tile floor. A cute girl looks in over the counter at the commotion, and she looks to me for an explanation, but I just shrug my shoulders sheepishly, and blush a little when she smiles and turns away.

"How was the show, you guys?" Robbie asks as he climbs up from the floor.

"Meh, it was okay." I say, "Say Hi to Your Mom was alright, Nada Surf was so-so."

"I thought they were good," Tim says.

"You thought they were cute," Gina corrects.

"Same difference."

"I don't know, they didn't put on a bad show or anything," I say, "but there's something really uncomfortable about grown-ups singing lyrics like 'I'm just a happy kid.'"

Robbie takes a sip of his beer and looks at me eagerly. "Kind of like this article, huh?"

The question catches me off-guard, but he makes a good point. "Yeah, exactly. I mean, I'm 23 years old, why am I writing about borrowed Volvos and bodegas that don't ID? There's just something so dishonest, so exploitive about it all."

Robbie pats me on the shoulder. "You're not in high school anymore."

"Seriously. And neither are Nada Surf. Don't get me wrong, I really got into their last album, Let Go, where it felt like they were growing up, you know? It was a completely different sound, trading their tired 90's alternative rock for this sincere, subtly sweet folk music. But as soon they opened with "Blizzard of '77," played too fast and too loud, I knew I was in for a long night."

Tim shouts out over the noise of the party, "Aw, you're being too hard on them man. Remember the kitten song? 'I'm a little kitten, too small for my mittens,' or however it went? That was funny, right?"

"Sure, it was funny, but it was stupid too. I'm sorry, but the whole show just reeked of insincerity. If you listen to their new albums, it sounds like they're trying to shed their washed up alt-rock-star image. But watching them live, it looked like they were begging to have it back."

Robbie, noticing the tension, tries to lighten the mood. "Did they at least play 'Popular?'"

I look over at Gina and Tim, whose faces share my disappointment. "No."

Robbie groans exaggeratedly. "Aw man! I loved that song! I'm head of the class…I'm pop-u-lar, something something something…I'm popular, come on, sing it with me!"

Gina and Tim stay in the imaginary kitchen, singing their hearts out. But I walk out to my car, bored with this fantasy. As much fun as high school parties were, playing drinking games with fake teenagers doesn't sound too appealing tonight. Driving along the 80, I get lost in nostalgia. Remembering my first kiss under a light post at a movie theater, getting grounded for coming home high, watching My So-Called Life, cheating on tests, and getting my heart broken and rebroken, time and time again. It's amazing how little of it seems to matter now, when it all was so enormous back then. I sigh as I cross the Bay Bridge, replacing Violent Femmes with the new Broken Social Scene. The 90's are over, I think, it's time to grow up.