Hardcore Sunday
July 22, 2009
After the Nats game on Sunday, we decided to grab dinner at a Silver Spring institution, the Quarry House Tavern. How shall I describe the Quarry House?
One word pretty much says it: dive.
I had been to Quarry House exactly once before in my life; it was 30 years ago and I went with my boyfriend to drink beers. The place has not changed one bit.
Well, the layout, decor, and ambiance have not changed. It's still down a flight of steps, in a dark, slightly dank basement, with two weird, long, narrow rooms in a sort of an J shape. So I cool with that.
When we drove past, we noticed about half a dozen young men loitering around; a couple were wrassling with amps and other band stuff.
We should have taken the hint.
As we clambered down the steps, we noticed a sign on the door: HARDCORE SUNDAY!!
We should have taken the hint.
We wove through the first room -- no tables for four -- and made our way to the back room. A young woman, beguilingly decked out in a black vest over a black bra, drawled beerily, "Are you guys here to see the band?"
"We just want something to eat," I replied, because I wanted to avoid a cover charge, should there be one.
"Oh that's cool, you can sit anywhere," she slurred, waving vaguely toward a table.
We grabbed a table and ordered food and drink -- beers, burgers, BLTs, ice water, coke. The food part of the menu was two pages; the beer part of the menu was six pages.
Okay!
It slowly dawned on us that:
- We were the only people over 30 (and well over 30 at that!).
- We were the only people not wearing all black.
- We were the only people who did have many types of bodily decorations.
Hardcore Sunday. Hmm. We should have taken the hint.
My sister and I located the rest room -- it was behind the biggest amp right by the band... niche. We had to navigate around band... members... and squeeze between the amps to get into the bathroom, but it was well-lit and clean and covered in interesting graffiti.
For example, over the sink:
CALL YOUR MOM!!
On the wall:
For 38 years I never had an orgasm. Then I met Keith.
Way to go, Keith!
Anyway, the food was delish. Really, really good -- my BLT was just about the best I've had in recent memory. So we were lulled.
The crowd started to congregate in the room. Mostly guys, mostly skinny, all in black. The women were also all in black, with pale faces and red lipstick.
Oh, and one of them had a two-year old with her.
Yes. A baby.
In a bar.
Then the standup comedian started. He was very very very... wrong. Extremely poor taste. Outrageously politically incorrect. Scatalogical. Filthy.
And fucking hilarious.
We should have taken the hint.
Right after the comedian came the next band.
The first, uh, chord? Opening note? How can I describe the crushing loudness? It made my teeth vibrate. It made my eyeballs retreat into my brain. It made my feet curl up and my butt clench. It was the loudest thing I have ever heard, and I have been to a John McLaughlin Mahavishnu Orchestra concert!
I could not distinguish instruments or voices or anything. My sister said that the... lyrics... for the first song consisted of "FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!" and so on in a similar -- okay, identical -- vein.
Meanwhile, the crowd migrated to the very front of the room, where young men took turns running full tilt into each other and bouncing off the walls.
Literally. I am not even kidding.
We could not talk; it was stupid to even try. We laughed instead. When the first... song... was over, we cracked up. We were so out of our element! God bless you, kids; enjoy it. Turn the amps up to 11, slam dance to your heart's content, get it while you can.
But please find a babysitter next time, okay?
My brother and sister-in-law arrived during the second song. Now, my brother's idea of hard rock is Buddy Holly and the Crickets. Okay, maybe the Rolling Stones.
That was our cue to pay our check, tip our hats to the next generation, and bug out to Tastee Diner.