The Barrel House Experiment
November 11, 2017, Barrel House. Beverly, MA.
The intensity of my sleepiness at this point in time is so severe that it is probably illegal in some states.
Last night, I saw Dan Deacon at the ONCE Ballroom in Somerville. It was a fantastic show, but very exhausting. Apparently Deacon likes to throw dance contests and high-five moshing into his live act. This was all part of Hassle Fest 9, which is something I will have to write about at a later time. Deacon went on at midnight, and I didn’t get home until around 1:30am. I’m guessing I didn’t fall asleep until 2:30 or 3. I woke up in a disconcerting state, because although I was not hungover, my life force had been drained; eaten up the previous night by some sort of happy techno monster. Was it too much dancing? Or was that one falafel I got just not enough food for the night?
It’s irrelevant now. I’m currently sitting at the bar in the Barrel House in Beverly, just down the street from The Cabot. I’ve been wanting to write about Barrel house for awhile now, but I wanted to go during a particularly weird or interesting time. Word among my friends in the know was Leann Rimes is playing at the Cabot tonight, and logic dictated those leaving that show are going to want more drinks or more food. And why wouldn’t they opt for Barrel House? It’s hip, it’s classy, and, if you really want to, you can order a 3 pound porterhouse.
Picture it: a beautiful, blonde, tipsy woman in her 50s slams open the doors, and everyone puts down their aged bourbon and bread topped with onion jam because they can tell just by looking at her that she had the time of her life tonight. Leann busted out all the hits and performed a bitchin’ acoustic solo. This woman hadn’t been to a concert in years and she just experienced something special. She wanted a drink and she wanted that drink to be fancy.
I couldn’t pass up this fictional scenario, that’s for sure. So I dragged ass throughout this entire day, just rotating between sleeping and hydrating and caffeinating, periodically stopping for a meal here and there, practicing breathing and meditation techniques to shake off any excess anxiety from the night prior. I’m drinking a whiskey smash, a beautiful minty beverage full of crushed ice. My friend (let’s call him Kyle) orders a craft beer and a charcuterie plate.The waitress brings us the plaque of savory meats and is pointing out which pâté is which, and I learn there is such a thing as spreadable salami. I keep turning to the door, hoping to see that hot Leann crowd bust in any minute. Is that my ex-girlfriend? No. That might be her over there, though.
Wait.
Is that me?
No, no. I’m me. A lot of us sure look the same here in Beverly. I suppose that’s comforting, though.
Bartenders work in hyperdrive here. I see all sorts of equipment and I don’t really know how any of it works. I believe one of these things is called a jigger. I spot a copper pineapple container and I ask the bartender what it’s used for. He informs me it’s for when you order a specific drink. I tell him I’d like to know what drink it is, because drinking out of a copper pineapple sounds pretty soothing tonight. He tells me it’s for the False Idol, a vodka-based drink, according to the menu. I already had a whiskey smash and a beer, so I decide against it, but I will be back to drink out of that thing.
This meat spread is delicious, but I’m still not seeing any crazy crowd. In fact, it’s been about two hours and I think we’re among the same people with which we started. Everyone seems to be having fun; lots of laughing and friendly conversation. A man was just delighted to hear he could pick from two different types of water (sparkling or still, a decision that also caught me off guard at the start of the evening). I hear couples asking the bartenders how certain drinks are made and which ones fully suit their needs. I check Facebook. Leann doesn’t end until 11 and it is currently 11:15.
One more drink. One more drink and if that rockin’ crowd doesn’t show up, I give up. Did she do a really long encore? Is there an after-party I don’t know about? How much did she decide to jam tonight?
It’s 11:30. I give up. These people I have fully imagined are going to be out way later than me. Kyle and I are heading to his car, bellies full of capicola and apricot-glazed wings and delicious mustards. I look at the sign on The Cabot advertising tonight’s concert, and I realize I do not know a single Leann Rimes song.
