There’s still time to nominate local icons for Best of D.C.
SOMEONE RECENTLY posed the question “what’s that smell?” in reference to the famous 9:30 Club stench (“Washington’s Mundane Mysteries No. 8,”12/2/94). Where does it come from?, you ask.
Well, it’s not a thing, it’s a person, or rather a group of people. It is the smell of those who are so obsessed with Pearl Jam that they fail to see the much better (and oftentimes more financially friendly) music scene in their own back yards. It is the smell of those Pearl Jam fans who realize there is some form of music coming from D.C., but can’t see past the infrequent token local tune played on WHFS (I will take a brief moment to plug the WIDY idea, a local youth radio station which is attempting to come about—P.O. Box 73384, Washington, DC 20056). It is the smell of those who can see past WHFS, but only to scream out, “Hey, Ian, play “Waiting Room’!” in a drunken stupor. It is the odor of those who would rather beat the living piss out of each other than dance by themselves and injure none. It is the stench of those who do it ’cause it’s “cool.” It is the reek of those whose greatest ambition is to see Nirvana (complete with festering Cobain) grace the stage at 9:30, with opening band Green Day (I’ve got news for you, there are four Sex Pistols, and they weren’t from Idaho). There is no other way to describe it. It is eau de mosh.