Okay, No, Seriously, I Will Beat Your Ass

When we headed into the city from the depths of the wild Philadelphia suburbs, we were practically giddy with anticipation at being offered the chance to see Yo La Tengo, one of our favorite bands, live at the Trocadero.

That euphoria lasted about fifteen minutes after we entered the Troc. Look, we realize it's wintertime, and people take up more room when they're wearing their bulky winter coats, and we realize that it was a sold-out Yo La Tengo show, but we cannot fathom any rational reason why we spent three hours crammed so tightly into the Troc that the only place we could find breathing room was on that balcony. Behind four rows of kneeling hipsters, indie rock fans, aging hippies, and a shocking number of Center City Businessmen. In the doorway of the bar. Where we were stepped on approximately 6,893 times. We're not saying the Troc oversold the show. We're just saying they might want to think about revising their 'sold out' numbers down by about 100. Or two.

That said, we're willing to put up with a lot to see Yo La Tengo on tour, especially in support of their latest album I Am Not Afraid Of You And I Will Beat Your Ass, which, in our humble opinion, was easily one of the best albums released last year.

The concert started off great, with a sweetly jamming opener, guitarist and co-founder Ira Kaplan jumping about the stage and flailing in awesome style. (And, truth be told, we have never seen roadies exchange quite as many guitars between songs before, and we have been to quite a few concerts.

Unfortunately for us, that opening jam? Would be the only song we would manage to hear during the course of the evening. Apparently, it is now de rigeur to buy tickets to sold out concerts, not for the purpose of actually watching or listening to said concert, but for the sheer purpose of talking and laughing loudly throughout the entire concert, despite being shushed twice by the sections surrounding your loud, braying ass. I mean, seriously, when someone stands up and busts out the 'Shut up or go back to Jersey!' card, your talking is probably excessive.

We may be old fashioned, but it seems to us that you would go to a concert to listen to the band, not to listen to yourself. We are very confused as to the reason why anyone would choose the bar with the $20 cover charge and loud house band if their entire reason for going out on a Saturday night is to hang out and talk with their friends. At jackhammer-like decibels. Despite being asked nicely, shushed, and finally yelled at to, for the love of all that is holy, shut the fuck up. We further don't understand why, after being confronted with your own jackassery, you would continue blithely talking, despite being surrounded by folks who just wanted to hear the concert.

Honestly, after a solid hour of being barely able to hear the band over the combined vocal powers of the patrons in the bar behind us and Chatty McFratty over to the right, and after being pushed into the wall for roughly the 87th time by fellow concert-goers desperate to get another beer, we couldn't take it any more. We had to leave. We're sorry, Yo La Tengo. We wanted to love it, we really did. Heck, we just wanted to hear it.

Photo credit: Flickr user s2art.