COLUMN: Silent Disco

I recently had an unsettling high school flashback.

Last weekend was Davenport's Alternating Currents, a marathon of music and art and theatre and one of the best festivals I've experienced in the Quad Cities. The organizers should be commended, and I swear I'm not just saying that because I was a part of it.

One of the features this year was a silent disco on the downtown Skybridge. It's a trendy new fad: a dance night soundtracked to absolute silence. Instead of being greeted by thumping bass beats, attendees are given a pair of headphones. Three DJs blare jams simultaneously through a wireless transmitter, and you tune your headphones to the DJ of your choice.

It's a novel way to enjoy dancing with your friends without having to scream over the music, plus it's kinda fun to see dozens of people dancing in a silent room. Gratefully, I was asked to be one of the tunesmiths this past weekend.

Each DJ could pick a different genre. They already had one guy mixing uptempo house music, and Planet 93.9 was there to provide alternative rock. I decided to throw caution to the wind and come armed with a set of 80's pop and new wave nostalgia. It's the music I grew up with, so why not? We had NO idea who was going to show up. We had no idea if ANYONE was going to show up.

It ended up being fairly packed, which was fantastic. EXCEPT it was packed with younger folks who mostly gravitated to the other DJs and looked at me with disdain like I was DJ Grandpa from Planet Yesteryear. Honestly, though, who could blame them? It's been FORTY YEARS since new wave was even a thing. When I was in high school, if I'd have gone to a dance and the DJ was bumping Glenn Miller, I'd have looked at him with disdain, too. There's just as much time difference between me and Glenn Miller as there is between today's kids and Cyndi Lauper. Time is a weird thing.

Thankfully, though, I had a small but magnificent crowd of 80s fans rocking out with me to New Kids on the Block and Duran Duran, and it ended up the most fun gig I've had in a long time. But the whole thing definitely made me laugh. Every time some kid walked by sneering at me, I felt like I was right back in high school (and the fact that it was being soundtracked to The Safety Dance and Electric Avenue probably didn't help matters.)

It made me think about those awkward days -- being SO desperate to fit in, SO careful to listen to the right music, SO concerned with wearing the right clothes. If I had to re-live those days, I'd either lose my mind or become the weirdo loner in the corner, doing my own thing and not caring one iota about what anyone else thought. If it were The Breakfast Club, I'd totally be Ally Sheedy.

Do kids today have the same sort of cliques we used to have? I'm inclined to think it MUST be different.

When I was in high school, cliques were everything. Even something as simple as your taste in music could define an entire caste system in our cafeteria. There was a table full of metalheads, a table of wannabe rappers, a table full of goth and punk kids. There was a jock table, a cheerleader table, a table full of nerds and a table full of theater kids. Navigating the social hierarchy practically required a map.

Then there was me. I was desperate to fit in with ALL of them, which thusly meant I fit in with NONE of them. I loved theatre, but I wasn't a great actor. I was a huge nerd, but I was terrible at video games. I loved goth music, but I also loved The Beatles and Run-DMC. And let's be honest, my mom pretty much dictated all my fashion choices, which was probably a good thing considering some of the choices in my present-day wardrobe. 

In the least creepy way possible, I'd love to be a fly on the wall at a high school cafeteria today just to see what it's like. While I'm sure there are still cliques, I don't think they're as defined as they were back in my day. I spend an unhealthy amount of my free time in record stores, and I see what kids bring to the counter. Just today, I saw a school-aged kid buy 3 albums: Judas Priest, Billie Eilish, and ABBA. Where were these people when I was in high school? 

My guess is it's all thanks to the internet. With the advent of the information superhighway, you don't need to carefully choose what album to spend your allowance on. For a monthly fee, you can now have access to nearly every song, movie, and TV show ever made. You don't have to drive to Chicago to experience goth culture. You can just say, "Hey Siri, play Bauhaus." Kids today have it easy.

I'm the last person to give advice to today's youth. For the most part, I sucked at it. But if I had a do-over, I wouldn't change a thing. There's nothing better than finding like-minded people who dig the same stuff as you -- but you shouldn't ever like something just because you want to fit in. Listen and watch whatever you want. Trust me, when you get older, NONE of it will matter. 

In the meantime, there's already rumors we haven't seen the last silent Skybridge dance party. Hopefully they invite me back. Maybe next time I'll dust off some disco records and get even weirder looks. 

COLUMN: Backwater Gamblers

Quad Cities, I am finally one of you.

Okay, so I've been one of you for a long time since moving here for college in 1988. But even if you've lived here for decades, there's a few things you need to check off your bucket list before you can officially declare yourself a true Quad Citian.

You need to have a Magic Mountain at midnight at Ross' Restaurant. You need to ride the Channel Cat. You need to cheer on the Bandits at Modern Woodmen Park. You should probably have filled at least one sandbag in your life. You need to hear Taps waft out from the Arsenal at dark. You need to experience the rush of adrenaline that can only come from having spotted Paula Sands in the wild. 

And until last week, there was one important rite of passage I'd yet to cross off my QC bucket list. It's finally done.

I went to a Backwater Gamblers show.

I shouldn't have to tell ANYONE here about the Backwater Gamblers. If you're from the Quad Cities, you should already know that we have one of the best nationally-recognized water ski teams around. In fact, we have the FIFTH-BEST team in the whole country, according to the 2021 Show Ski National Championships, which is a thing that apparently exists. And every Wednesday and Sunday from Memorial Day to Labor Day, they're out there on the Rock River, putting on a free show for anyone who turns up.

Last week, I turned up.

Why had I never done this before? The most I'd ever seen of the Gamblers were pictures and a few lucky glimpses of practice sessions. When you drive over the Rock and look downriver, you might expect to see a boat or some pelicans. But every once in a while, you spot a human pyramid on water skis and go, "Hmm, don't see THAT every day."

Why have I never gone to one of their shows before now? I'm kicking myself. It was a solid hoot.

As far as I'm concerned, what they do is next to impossible. I can't even swim. A full year of lessons and my proudest accomplishment in the pool was kicking to the deep end while openly sobbing and clutching one of those floaty paddleboard thingys for dear life. I am not cut out for aquatics, unless they one day start handing out medals for speed sinking.

I barely comprehend how people can even swim, let alone strap a piece of wood on their feet and go river-surfing. I have no earthly idea how one stays upright on water skis. But to then take said skis up a ramp, do a backflip, and somehow land without ripping your legs clean off your body? It's just magic to me.

But the skiing feats weren't half as great as the corny scripted comedy. You can't just send people on skis over ramps for an hour straight. Even superheroes need a quick breather. So while the team sets up for their next sequence of tricks, the rest of the Gamblers act out a kitschy Old West storyline full of cheeseball chuckles that somehow manages to be both ridiculous and wonderful at the same time. My kudos to the writers.

It kinda makes me wanna be one.

Now that I think about it, I'm hard-pressed to think of a story that WOULDN'T be bettered by water skiers forming a human pyramid in the middle of the plot. I vote we merge the worlds of local theatre and local competitive water ski performance teams into a dramatic juggernaut of epic proportions.

We could have slapstick comedy on the weekends and cutting edge ski-dramas during the week. We could create "As The Water Churns," the world's only aquatic soap opera with new plot twists daily. We could re-enact historical dramas -- imagine how much more kids would dig history if Thomas Jefferson signed the Declaration of Independence while doing a backwards barefoot flip turn.

I attended the show with a few of my closest friends. Halfway through, I turned and said, "Oh man, what I wouldn't give to write the scripts for these shows. We could have a --"

"Why?" interrupted my friend Reid. "It's absolutely perfect the way it is."

He's right. There's a reason the Backwater Gamblers are a cherished institution in town. It's like the water-skiing equivalent of a bear hug. If you haven't been in a while, I highly recommend crossing the Gamblers off your bucket list before the season's up. Have a Kona Ice, laugh and groan, and watch people strap sticks to their feet and defy gravity.

It's the best way I've spent a Wednesday in quite a while. Finally, I feel like a Quad Citian. 

COLUMN: Disco Balls

I'm not much of an activist. The one time I tried to write a funny column opposing urban chicken coops, poultry enthusiasts stormed our lobby demanding my head on a platter, sunny side up. I learned my lesson.

I might be too chicken for activism, but our next generation isn't. Today I learned of an underground movement for change, started right here in the Quad Cities at Washington Jr. High School. It's definitely an important cause we can all get behind.

Almost a year to the day after we all painfully added the word "derecho" to our vocabularies, another freak windstorm assaulted our area on Wednesday morning. While it wasn't bad enough to do terrible damage, it DID down some trees, blow up a couple transformers, and temporarily knock out power to a goodly portion of Rock Island.

Brandy VanDeWalle is a good friend of mine and the owner of Skeleton Key Art & Antiques, an amazing shop you could easily get lost in for days, which you probably shouldn't because it's a former funeral home and I'm pretty sure it's haunted even though she assures me it's not.

When Washington Jr. High lost power on Wednesday, Brandy's 13-year-old son Alex knew precisely what to do. He sprang into action, launched a petition drive, and gathered the signatures of his classmates. The students have spoken. They demand change, and they demand change NOW. Brandy shared Alex's petition with me, and I couldn't agree more.

It reads, and I quote:

"PETITION TO INSTALL GENERATOR-POWERED DISCO BALLS IN THE SCHOOL HALLWAYS FOR THE NEXT BLACKOUT." To date, this important movement has garnered an impressive 19 signatures. We have a movement on our hands, people.

This is a cause I fully endorse. I have lived through many a crisis in my lifetime, and I can safely tell you not one of them wouldn't have been bettered in some way by emergency disco balls. The power goes out? BAM. Disco balls light the way. A global pandemic keeps us house-bound? BAM. There's no vaccine for disco. Your best friend ditches you? BAM. You can leave your friends behind, because your friends don't dance and if they don't dance, well, they're no friends of mine. 

I needed insight, so I met with Alex about his urgent plea for disco-fueled change.

SB: So... why disco?

AVdW: Many people believe disco died in the 70s, but the heart and soul lives on in the disco ball. Disco didn't die, it evolved. Also, blackout raves seem fun.

SB: You realize disco music is about the same age as your mom. In fact, I can attest to personally witnessing your mother having danced to disco on multiple occasions. Do you often jam out to a funky disco beat?

AVdW: I'm going to have to get back to you on those funky disco beats, but I do enjoy older music. Also, sorry about my mom. Sounds like she's embarassed both of us in public.

SB: Can I tell by the way you use your walk that you're a woman's man with no time to talk?

AVdW: Mom had to explain that to me, but I'd like to think so, yes.

SB: Disco balls are often employed during slow jams to smooch with your sweetie. Be honest, is this your end goal?

AVdW: Maybe, but I won't tell.

SB: How would school be improved by the implementation of emergency blackout hallway disco balls?

AVdW: On a day like today, it could be used as entertainment for students and faculty. Also, if there were an intruder, it would distract them until authorities arrive. It's multi-functional, people.

SB: I couldn't help but notice someone named Ava signed your petition with a signature eight times larger than everyone else. Be honest, is she eight times cooler than you?

AVdW: Yep, she put her John Hancock in the smack dab middle. She wears glorious eyeliner and helped us get teachers to sign the petition.

SB: Do you see a future career in political disco activism?

AVdW: There's potential, but I'm keeping my options open. I'm thinking of taking this all the way to Washington. Disco is the next political party. Come on, Gen Z, back me on this!

In these trying times, it's good to know that tomorrow's leaders already have a sense of urgent priorities. At the next election, I'm taking a stand. I'm voting with the Disco Party. And Alex, if you decide to throw a rally in support of your movement, I'm available to DJ on the cheap. I promise I won't let your mom dance... much. 

COLUMN: Pity Party

Somebody better alert the Guinness people. I may have just set a record for The World's Shortest Pity Party. 

I've got no right to complain about my life. I have a great job, a wonderful family, a roof over my head, and an ever-growing army of cats to carry out my evil bidding. I've amassed some of the greatest friends a fella could ever have -- and one of the oldest and dearest of those friends recently paid me a visit.

I've known Chad since junior high. I was a super nerd in those days, and we met in the nerdiest of ways: computer club. Chad was, and still is, the smartest human I've ever known.

I wish I had cool nerd stories to share, but we weren't cool nerds. We didn't start a fraternity or seek any revenge, and we never built a robot girlfriend who taught us life lessons (but if anyone ever COULD, it's probably Chad.)

About the wildest we got were slumber parties where we'd chug Jolt Cola and play video games 'til sunup. We were THOSE kinda nerds. 

In high school, Chad moved away to some Fancy Academy for Super Smart Kids, but we've stayed in touch over the years and try to get together whenever he visits home. These days, he gets paid to teach computers how to think. When the day comes that robots become sentient and try to enslave humanity, it'll probably be Chad's fault. Whenever we hang out, I reckon there's always a decent chance that a time-travelling Arnold Schwarzenegger's going to bust through the door any second to either kill him or save him. 

It was fun having him in town, and I'd like to tell you we spent the day as mature adults reminiscing over a lovely dinner or something. I certainly don't want to tell you that two 50-year-old men wasted an entire Saturday eating frozen pizza and playing Nintendo until 3 a.m.

At one point, though, we set the Nintendo down long enough to head out and replenish our junk food cache. That's when I took Chad on a little detour.

"I need to sidetrack for a second," I explained. "It's Record Store Day."

That's a real thing. International Record Store Day is my favorite holiday of the year. On that day, music companies issue small quantities of limited-edition records to select independent shops around the globe. Most are already collector's items before they even go on sale. Music nerds start lining up at the crack of dawn to be first through the door. I call it Vinyl Christmas

There were a couple pieces I wanted to procure, so I dragged Chad over to Co-Op Records real quick.

On the way there, that's when it hit me. There I was, fifty years old, still a nerd, still hanging with my nerdy friend, wasting an entire day playing Nintendo and then driving around talking about the Nintendo we'd just played.

The ugly thoughts came fast and furious. My mouth was somehow still talking about video games, but my brain was having a pity party. YOU'RE PATHETIC. NOBODY LIKES YOU. YOU'RE STILL A NERD. GROW UP. NO WONDER YOU WERE PICKED LAST FOR GYM CLASS, YOU RIDICULOUS MAN.

By the time we got to the store, I was internally questioning my life choices while still mindlessly talking about Zelda and Mario. Then I walked through the door.

At some point in my life, my nerd focus shifted from gaming to music, and record stores shall always be my happy place. If there's a heaven, mine will be lined with crates of vinyl and a limitless number of people with whom to argue the merits of Weezer and My Bloody Valentine for hours on end.

That afternoon, Co-Op Records was packed with masked shoppers. And I swear to you, I took two steps in and a majority of them turned and gleefully yelled out, "SHANE!" 

They had no idea, but my fellow music nerds saved me from an existential crisis that day. I might be a nerd. I might even be pathetic. But I have my people, I have my friends, and I have my happy place. I'm not ever getting a seat at the cool kids table, but I don't think I want one. Honestly, it looks like hard work.

I'd rather be a life-long nerd with my life-long nerd friends. We have crazy fun, we know the meaning of real friendship, and I'll guarantee we have much better taste in music. Next time I have a pity party, it's gonna have loads of video games and a great soundtrack.