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The concerts. Living in West Virginia for the past four years, I had access to a few decent concerts a month—but nothing like any given night in D.C. Usually, I drove a few hours to Ohio, Pittsburgh, or to D.C. to catch a worthwhile indie show. Long before I knew I was going to live here, I was on the 9:30 Club’s e-mail list—a six-hour drive for a show was just part of the hassle/fun.
Now, I pore over the ads and concert listings every week in City Paper, at brightestyoungthings.com, and DCist, among other sources, and watch my email for Pancake Mountain taping announcements.
Since I arrived here in October, I’ve managed to catch some solid shows (Chuck Brown and the Pogues) and have plans to see shows through August (including Kanye and the Eels). I’ve seen flaming hula-hoop twirling at the Palace of Wonders and a robot playing Stevie Wonder’s “I just Called to Say I Love You” on trumpet at the Kennedy Center’s fortnight-long Japanfest. Surreal.