Disco Biscuits in Raleigh 2024

I'm not sure how many times I've seen the Disco Biscuits over the years. Quite a few. They're logged in my mind with pumas stalking the edge of the velvet night, with fireworks randomly thrown into the crowd by volatile Widespread Panic fans, with dreamscapes of oblivion. My friend who asked me to drive to Raleigh with her keeps track. This is her 80th show. They chose Raleigh to end the tour on a high note, literally and metaphorically. Metaphorically, the crowd was warm and supportive as anticipated. Some reference was made to being in a bubble of positivity and that felt apt. Literally, stepping out of the sticky venue at break, immediately in front of the door were the wooks peddling whippet balloons. The bouncers were evidently there only to keep the peace, not enforce the law and, while at first blush, it looked like a crowd that might get out of hand, the job was actually an easy one. No one had any intention of starting a row. They were there for the music, and in more cases than not, the drug-fueled experience of the music. Not saying the latter choice was a bad thing. It's not like anyone there had the responsibility of tending to children and one can only hope they weren't planning to drive. It was just an individual thing. Studying the glowing faces, that was clear. Not shiny clean happy faces like in the REM song. Apart from us, I didn't see anyone who had washed his face within the past four days. Or maybe even changed their clothes. Their faces were glowing with euphoria. And sweat. Like angels who didn't care they were lost. It's an odd demographic, Disco Biscuits fans. Mostly guys. And not the guys you typically see dancing. More like auto mechanics with big guts you'd expect to drink cheap beer and say obvious things. But here they were. Excellent dancers. Jiving intimately with each other... and at the end of the night, you noted that they were parting ways with simply a nod. They'd been strangers before and would be strangers again. I'm not exaggerating the intimacy of sharing the divinity in music. I grimaced at even the notion of looking directly at the guy behind me, rubbing his back against the wall and faux grinding me from the back. He wasn't quite touching me and oddly, I didn't really care what he was up to. He wasn't draining my energy. He would say weird things to me now and then and offered me a mixed drink there was no way I would accept; I'm pretty sure he was tripping on something. And that was part of it. I just didn't care enough to bring him down from his illusions. The only moment I felt a bit of despair was when I decided to move a bit to the left as the guy next to him looked a bit more benign. At least he was stationary. But when I did, my grinding guy professed to him that he was really horny and my potential savior agreed that he was too. So I just turned my attention to the musicians and to not pressing or knocking into the dancers in front of me, not a small feat in the doubly compressed crowd near the stage. There was a Columbia shaman type dancing in front of me who was actually smaller than me, and when behind the sanctity of my mirrored sunglasses, excellent choice for the light show, I closed my eyes in my own personal ecstasy I would inadvertently catch his man bun in the claws of the velcro of my hand cast. He never let on.

All in all, it was a pleasant evening. We sauntered back through the balmy night to the tiny house we'd rented. My friend checked the stats and the concert reviews, and while my head was roaring too loudly from the music to drift off to the more subtle chirps of the peepers, I did fall fast asleep, grateful for the performance and my fellow dancers.