The Girl In The Fishtank, And Other Awkward Moments: A Concert Review
1931, San Francisco at the end of the Prohibition Era. Agostino Giuntoli looks around, and decides what the city needs is a naked woman on top of a muscular fish. Thus was born Bimbo's 365 Club, complete with white porcelain statue of Dolfina.
It's nestled at the edge of North Beach, near the confluence of Chestnut and Columbus and Jones Streets, among the hills and valleys of the steep section of San Francisco. (Years ago, in Missoula, in a conversation on campus, Vaughn told a girl we knew "San Francisco was built on a hill, you know," to which she replied, in incomprehensible fashion, "YOU were built on a hill." It was bizarre, but really funny).
Bimbo's is classy, red carpeting everywhere and red curtains, 1930's ambience extending to the multiple bars throughout the establishment, solid, ornate bars backed by artwork of naked women and goldfish. Marina bought me a fedora a couple months back, and it fit in perfectly with the bartenders in black-tie formal wear.
This classiness extended all the way to the bathroom, where it became confusing instead. There was a well-liveried black man standing just inside the bathroom door, bringing to mind instantly the opening scene of Mad Men, with Don Draper talking to the waiter at the bar. It was also mildly creepy. He was just standing there, pretending to be invisible except when it was time to point out the stacks of paper towels. Although I think I heard him muttering to himself once or twice. Unless he was wearing a Bluetooth headset, of course.
Was he for real? Was this his job, or was it just a hobby? There was a small basket on the counter with a few neatly propped-up dollar bills displayed to catch the eye.
If you need further proof that a tradition can be based on no good reason whatsoever, this is it. What part of that age brought us to such decadence that we needed a Vanna White for the hand-drying paradigm?
"There are your handtowels, sir."
"Where? You mean that pile right there that I saw when I walked in?"
"Yes sir."
"Gosh, thanks! Here's a dollar for your trouble, my good man."
And then there's that whole underlying premise of servitude, which, well, is truly fucked up. Does anyone want to be reminded of slavery and racism after two beers? I just wanted to go to the bathroom, for god's sake.
He pointed out the paper towels against my will when I accidentally made eye contact. Did that entitle him to a dollar?
Nah. I was still debating this question as I left, but guilt-trips aside, I had another beer and some french fries instead. I mean, sure, if that's his job, fine, but he didn't really provide a service other than to puzzle me, and that I can get for free elsewhere. I'll declare right here and now, on behalf of frugal bathroom-goers everywhere, stepping out of the context of the club paradigm, and the upscale bathroom etiquette world, and you might as well be tipping someone for pointing out that the sky is up there.
The evening then transitioned from the stuffy world of bathroom attendants and the sense of luxury and veneer that entails to the very democratic nature of a rock concert. We watched the Brooklyn trio Au Revoir Simone, one of those hipster San Francisco concerts featuring up and coming bands that have reached that stage of having professional CDs and cult followings in big cities.
My first impression was that this was Feist in triplicate. Nothing that followed dispelled that notion, which is not a bad thing. They had that semi-angelic air of innocence, yet there was the subtle sense that these were angels who liked to have a good time over a glass of wine--they were the first band I've seen drink both water and wine on-stage--and perhaps make a cutting remark or two. There was a vaguely nerdy-yet-intellectual air to them that reminded me of most of the girls I was infatuated with in college, those nice girls who could have all been named Sarah or Sara and who wore nice sweaters, wore nice glasses, could dissect James Joyce and the questions of feminism like neurosurgeons, and who had a vaguely intimidating yet totally attractive intellectual power that seemed to be vectoring to some definite future in academia. The sort of girls I could talk to in class, but with whom I had no idea how to bring about a discussion of nude artwork involving statues of fish, for instance.
The music was fun, the band played with the buzzing energy of a hive of bees, and the hipster crowd showed signs of dancing, though I'm told that could be considered unhip. All in all, a magical evening in San Francisco. Bimbo would have been proud.
It's nestled at the edge of North Beach, near the confluence of Chestnut and Columbus and Jones Streets, among the hills and valleys of the steep section of San Francisco. (Years ago, in Missoula, in a conversation on campus, Vaughn told a girl we knew "San Francisco was built on a hill, you know," to which she replied, in incomprehensible fashion, "YOU were built on a hill." It was bizarre, but really funny).
Bimbo's is classy, red carpeting everywhere and red curtains, 1930's ambience extending to the multiple bars throughout the establishment, solid, ornate bars backed by artwork of naked women and goldfish. Marina bought me a fedora a couple months back, and it fit in perfectly with the bartenders in black-tie formal wear.
This classiness extended all the way to the bathroom, where it became confusing instead. There was a well-liveried black man standing just inside the bathroom door, bringing to mind instantly the opening scene of Mad Men, with Don Draper talking to the waiter at the bar. It was also mildly creepy. He was just standing there, pretending to be invisible except when it was time to point out the stacks of paper towels. Although I think I heard him muttering to himself once or twice. Unless he was wearing a Bluetooth headset, of course.
Was he for real? Was this his job, or was it just a hobby? There was a small basket on the counter with a few neatly propped-up dollar bills displayed to catch the eye.
If you need further proof that a tradition can be based on no good reason whatsoever, this is it. What part of that age brought us to such decadence that we needed a Vanna White for the hand-drying paradigm?
"There are your handtowels, sir."
"Where? You mean that pile right there that I saw when I walked in?"
"Yes sir."
"Gosh, thanks! Here's a dollar for your trouble, my good man."
And then there's that whole underlying premise of servitude, which, well, is truly fucked up. Does anyone want to be reminded of slavery and racism after two beers? I just wanted to go to the bathroom, for god's sake.
He pointed out the paper towels against my will when I accidentally made eye contact. Did that entitle him to a dollar?
Nah. I was still debating this question as I left, but guilt-trips aside, I had another beer and some french fries instead. I mean, sure, if that's his job, fine, but he didn't really provide a service other than to puzzle me, and that I can get for free elsewhere. I'll declare right here and now, on behalf of frugal bathroom-goers everywhere, stepping out of the context of the club paradigm, and the upscale bathroom etiquette world, and you might as well be tipping someone for pointing out that the sky is up there.
The evening then transitioned from the stuffy world of bathroom attendants and the sense of luxury and veneer that entails to the very democratic nature of a rock concert. We watched the Brooklyn trio Au Revoir Simone, one of those hipster San Francisco concerts featuring up and coming bands that have reached that stage of having professional CDs and cult followings in big cities.
My first impression was that this was Feist in triplicate. Nothing that followed dispelled that notion, which is not a bad thing. They had that semi-angelic air of innocence, yet there was the subtle sense that these were angels who liked to have a good time over a glass of wine--they were the first band I've seen drink both water and wine on-stage--and perhaps make a cutting remark or two. There was a vaguely nerdy-yet-intellectual air to them that reminded me of most of the girls I was infatuated with in college, those nice girls who could have all been named Sarah or Sara and who wore nice sweaters, wore nice glasses, could dissect James Joyce and the questions of feminism like neurosurgeons, and who had a vaguely intimidating yet totally attractive intellectual power that seemed to be vectoring to some definite future in academia. The sort of girls I could talk to in class, but with whom I had no idea how to bring about a discussion of nude artwork involving statues of fish, for instance.
The music was fun, the band played with the buzzing energy of a hive of bees, and the hipster crowd showed signs of dancing, though I'm told that could be considered unhip. All in all, a magical evening in San Francisco. Bimbo would have been proud.
posted by Devin at 11:32 PM
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