Stepping into the Holland Hotel in Jersey City, New Jersey at three in the morning raises a lot of questions. “How many times has this place been stuck up at gunpoint?,” is one. “Will I get held up at gunpoint during my stay?,” is definitely another.
Just several weeks before, my finger had hovered nervously over a “Buy Tickets” button. At the time, I wrestled with whether or not a cross country flight to spend thirty hours in New Jersey to catch a few of my favorite bands was the most prudent of decisions for a 43 year-old man to make.
Like a husky kid on a diving board staring fifteen-feet down at an ominous sea of chlorine and neighborhood pee, I temporarily was locked in a stalemate between the forces of rationale thought and the holy pursuit of good times.
A second glance at the lineup for the evening was all that I needed to break the tie.
The Bouncing Souls. Strike Anywhere. Two of my favorites.
If my index finger could speak, I suppose it would have shrugged and said “Fuck it.”
Click. One ticket to the White Eagle Hall bought.
Click. Airplane ticket purchased.
Click. Holland Hotel secured.
Standing in the ten foot lobby of the hotel I couldn’t help but wonder if that last click wasn’t just a little hasty. But then again, it’s just thirty hours and my goal in Jersey isn’t comfort, it’s to consume a healthy dose of power chords.
I wake the next morning to find that my room overlooks a Home Depot and a six lane highway. Next door, a Burger King welcomes fans of flame broiled obesity and high blood pressure. Perhaps this place isn’t so bad after all.
Walking down stairs to get my bearings, I find myself back in the lobby and prepare myself a complimentary coffee. Two men are there and they’re threatening violence upon each other despite the fact that they’re clearly traveling together.
“I’ll kick your ass old man.”
“I may be old, but I’ll slap the shit out of you.”
“Not with that cane you won’t.”
I finish prepping my coffee and leave, confident that a speedball or two will make this argument water under the bridge for these distinguished guests of the Holland.
The day goes on and eventually it’s time for the show. As I’m leaving the hotel, a guy with a Black Flag jacket spots me and we immediately identify one another as two guys that have the same mission for the evening. We split a cab, instantly start discussing our favorite sub-genre of music and part ways once we walk into the doors of the venue.
The show begins and any shred of doubt that this night would be anything less than a great decision is quickly annihilated.
Strike Anywhere rips through their set and solidifies their standing within my brain that they are one of the best live shows within punk rock and embody at a core level what I believe to be so good about this music scene - unity through music and the unshakeable feeling that a room full of strangers are in fact all family.
The next hour and half is spent listening to the Souls play thirty years of music to a hometown crowd. I find myself smiling and oddly at-ease as songs play that have been with me since the age of 19 or 20. Like an old friend, they’ve accompanied me to different states, various venues, drives up and down the freeways of Southern California and, of course, have been a place of refuge through good times and bad.
The show ends and I head back to the Holland. Burger King is only available as a drive-thru culinary option and my new buddy that I split a cab with happens to be going there as well. We drive a whopping 10 seconds over to the establishment and pick up a gut bomb, putting a sodium-laced cherry on top of the night.
The next day I wake up at 6 A.M. for a flight back to California. Standing once again in the Holland, I’m given the honor of witnessing one final conflict in the hotel’s lobby. A young couple is attempting to check-in and a security guard, who perhaps likes to keep it a bit too real, begins a passive aggressive lecture on how there aren’t any rooms, there won’t be any rooms, the manager will not be of any use and basically the couple is S.O.L. This doesn’t go over too well and as the confrontation gets a bit more heated, it dawns on me that perhaps I won’t get stuck up at the Holland, but I may be an innocent victim of crossfire.
Just then, my Uber pulls up.
Somewhere high above the Midwest I take some time to reflect on my weekend.
I don’t think life is short. I think it’s unpredictable.
I don’t know how much longer my favorite bands will continue to play. And I don’t know how much longer I’ll be around to watch them.
Perhaps flying across the country is a last ditch effort to hold onto some old memories or the fleeting energy of youth. Or maybe there’s an urgency in me now that wasn’t always present before. A desire to take the trip, see the show and create an experience or a memory because who knows how long these opportunities will last? And that doesn’t just go for my favorite music, it applies to friends, family, destinations…..life in general.
I suppose there will come a day when I’m no longer able to travel for music.
But goddamn if I’m not going to go down swinging.