Ellington

I hate to admit my insurmountable shame this early into my career in music journalism, or even this early into my column, but it can't be helped. I wasn't raised on classic rock or '90s alternative, or really any genre or period of music that could be considered remotely cool or sophisticated by the general populace.

Sure, I was familiar with The Beatles, with Nirvana, or with whomever I could click past on MTV and see in misinterpreted wonder. Instead, though, I joined my older sister Azia and my twin sister, Britta, in such reprehensible acts as purchasing Hanson CDs and watching the music videos that would run like stealthy commercials on The Disney Channel. But as I grew up, and the Internet made discovering new artists an easy task, I had a revelation that, for me, has stood the test of time: Modern pop music can be really stupid.

Music knocked me flat on my back for the first time when I was only 10 years old, during trips to one of the few all-ages venues in Baton Rouge, The Darkroom, named after the fact that it was, in actuality, a dark room. You've likely never ventured into that run-down near-deathtrap before, so I'll paint a picture: Imagine a hole-in-the-wall bar that no longer serves alcohol.

Despite the inherent lack of style, atmosphere or any of the usual things one might want in a locale, every weekend The Darkroom was brimming with high-school students and musically inclined undergrads from the nearby LSU. Droves would stampede through the bulky double doors, regardless of the night's lineup.

The Darkroom wasn't a place of musical discrimination, either. Metal, post-hardcore, indie-rock and pop-rock bands would often cohabit the same elevated stage on a single, crowd-packed night. It became a place where local bands such as As Cities Burn and Meriwether could thrive, well-liked alternative bands wanted to play, and I wanted to be. I was more than willing to chuck handfuls of cash at the show promoters so long as I could keep that experience going.

Like plenty of you, I went to the As Cities Burn reunion show at Hal & Mal's in January, and I was floored by the sheer mass of screaming nostalgia in attendance, crowding the back room. I kept thinking, "Where are all these people during shows normally? If only we could manage a crowd anywhere near that size for every local band performing."

I was reminded what sets places such as The Darkroom apart from the handful of excellent, yet inexplicably dwindling, venues here, besides Jackson's superior quality and ambiance. It's the ownership. Obviously, I don't mean the employees or staff, but rather, the personal pride that made patrons of The Darkroom attend night after night--soon-to-collapse roof and bad opening acts aside.

I know we're adults. We all have responsibilities, and we all have grand social pursuits that can't be dropped just because there's somebody playing somewhere in Jackson (as there always is). It's not reasonable to tell you that pride in your venues, or in your local bands, means making it to every independent gig blaring out of Ole Tavern or wafting onto the sidewalk from Underground 119.

But if you're one the many people distraught at the idea of a music-less Jackson, wondering why your favorite bands never venture into the unjustly undervalued southern states, don't skimp on a show just because of that $10 cover charge. Consider it an investment.

Email Micah Smith at [email protected].