It's All One Room
Glimpses of sacred time, for people who keep their paper wristband on for days.
July 20th, 2025
by Claremont Cometh Admin
If you see the same band over 60 times, eventually someone will get a photo of you. One of my friends, an expert at sneaking candids, always loved to catch me with my eyes closed, leaning on the stage, just glowing. That's the giveaway of total immersion in the moment: worlds away, catching some current of good feeling, and breaking out in that big grin.
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It's July 2017, and I'm touching the stage, and looking at the pedalboard in Des Moines.
It's July 2019, and I'm touching the stage, and looking at the pedalboard in Charlottesville.
It's July 2022, and I'm touching the stage, and looking at the pedalboard in Des Moines again.
It's July 2023, and I'm touching the stage, and looking at the pedalboard in Tulsa.
It's July 2024, and I'm touching the stage, and looking at the pedalboard in Connecticut.
It's July 2025. The pedalboard won't be there, if I go.
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The thrust of Cosmos & History: The Myth Of The Eternal Return is that modern life forces us to be historical. We understand that time, events, the world, and our bodies and minds most crucially, all move irreversibly forward together, inextricable. We experience novel information, novel events, and investigate their causes as possible yet-unknown, further new things. But archaic humans experienced life differently, Mircea Eliade argues: they protected themselves against the terror of history through rituals. Traditional practices around endings, losses, defeats, all brought about regeneration and renewal in what, to them, was the real. The past could be abolished, over and over. And no new fears, no new problems, could be created by the world, which was governed only by the forces they already understood and had solutions for.
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I can hardly remember the jobs I was working, the classes I took, the crises and panics day to day from 2015 to 2024. Another pointless garden center job. Forgotten computer class. All of 2019, spent sleeping nights in my car at the Walmart in Durham where they kept high hedges all around, and no one bothered you. Retail. Temp job. A friend missing. No job. Temp job. Manufacturing job. Hawking things for rent money. Deaths and massive depressions. Temp job. Moving. Bad days, all right days. Marking things in my calendar: just make it to the next show. They're back out there in September. You can get to California. They're doing Cat's Cradle again, that's a nice drive. Just grit your teeth for one more week at this bullshit job. You're gonna get out there, and chat a little with Peter in his olive drab army surplus hat, and they'll play a bunch of stuff you love, and you'll walk out of that show and feel like you can handle everything again. You always do. Count down the days. They'll be in Buffalo. You'll be in Buffalo, too. Someday, you won't remember what a horrible day this was. You'll remember Buffalo.
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Eliade's argument about the ritual, the regeneration, is that the ritual transported archaic humans out of meaningless daily life—profane time, profane here in the sense of "that which lacks sacredness."
The ritual elevated archaic humans to the level of the mythic archetype by mirroring an action or a sacrifice. The ritual allowed archaic humans to participate in making and becoming, by returning them to the original site of creation in the act of ending and regenerating. The ritual returned archaic humans to the flow of sacred time, to what was the real in their conception of the world: the thing that can always be returned-to, the thing from which connectedness itself flows, the thing that created the world and allows its re-creation.
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Greyhound bus ride in 2015 to Charlotte, to see them play at Neighborhood Theater.
Greyhound bus ride in 2017 to Atlanta (Terminal West) to Dallas (Trees) to LA (The Mayan).
Greyhound bus ride in 2017 to Des Moines, to see them play at Wooly's.
Greyhound bus ride in 2017 to Charlotte (Neighborhood Theater again).
Greyhound bus ride in 2018 to Tulsa (Cain's Ballroom) coming back from California. I thought I had fucked up worse than anyone else alive had ever fucked up, and you sang Jonathan Richman to me; thank you.
Greyhound bus ride in 2019 to Anaheim (House Of Blues).
Greyhound bus ride in 2023 to Tulsa again (The Vanguard), from Pittsburgh. Greyhound bus ride to St. Louis, where I got stranded.
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A friend of mine (November 2017, December 2017, December 2018, May 2019, July 2019 again, August 2021) told me once at a show that she thinks of the venues like one room. All those doors (D.C., Saxapahaw, Charlottesville, Saxapahaw again, Asheville) open into one place, one stage, and we just return to it. I begin to think, when the lights dim and the cheering starts, when the walk-on music fills up all the air above us: just one room. The stage lights welcome the people we get to share the room with again: John D. at the mic, Matt at his station, Jon behind the drumkit, Peter and the pedalboard. We're all back in the room together, and aren't we lucky?
Nothing stays the same forever. I'm sure I said to people all the time back then: John D. never even wanted to tour, y'know, back in the day; when he finally decides he's done, good for him. Or maybe they'll only tour light, like those City Winery videos where Jon's just got brushes and Peter's on that fretless bass. Or only one show a year, like Wckr Spgt. It's just so hard on him, I figured, you know, he'll have to call it someday, and that'll be it for Mountain Goats tour.
I did remember Buffalo. I do remember Buffalo. I said to everyone sitting out there outside the Town Ballroom in Buffalo, all of us shivering on the hard sidewalk: just think. Someday we're all going to wish we were still sitting here, waiting for this show to start. Someday I'm going to wish I were sitting here on this stupid cold hard sidewalk with all of you again.
People who were there will confirm that I said this. I was always saying that stuff at shows, because my friend who said "it's all one room" had stopped coming to shows. Someone has to say things.
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In 2016, from Delaware, I drive 7 hours to Pittsburgh to see them play.
In 2019, from Raleigh, I drive 8 hours to Pittsburgh, 8 more to Bloomington, to see them play.
In 2019, from somewhere else, I drive 18 hours to New Jersey to see them play.
In 2021, from Ames, I drive 16 hours southeast to Asheville to see them play.
In 2021, from Ames, I drive 10 hours east to Columbus to see them play.
In 2021, from Ames, I drive 8 hours east to Indianapolis to see them play.
In 2021, from Ames, I drive 16 hours southeast to Carrboro to see them play.
In 2022, from Ames, I drive 6 hours to Chicago to see them play.
In 2022, from Ames, I drive 17 hours to Richmond to see them play.
In 2022, from Ames, I drive 8 hours to Bloomington again, to see them play.
In 2022, from Ames, I drive 9 hours to Little Rock to see them play.
In 2022, from Ames, I drive 16 hours southeast to Asheville again, to see them play.
In 2023, from Ames, I drive 12 hours to Lexington to see them play.
In 2022, from Ames, I drive 15 hours to Huntsville to see them play.
In 2022, from Ames, I drive 9 hours to Detroit to see them play.
In 2023, from Philadelphia, I drive 6 hours to Boston to see them play.
In 2023, from Philadelphia, I drive 7 hours to Buffalo, 3 to Homer, 6 to Pittsburgh, to see them play.
In 2024, from Howell, I drive 13 hours to Pelham to see them play.
In 2024, from Howell, we drove and train-hopped and drove again through all those short distances, Woodstock and NYC and Boston and Millersville; and then we ended up at Union Transfer, that final night. It was so funny to stand there in the lobby and say, pointing: "I was right there! And you were walking by..."
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I had no idea it was going to become anything at all. I left work early on a whim, and bought a ticket at the same time I clocked out. I had never actually taken myself to see live music before. I got there at 2 in the afternoon, and sat outside Union Transfer with some strangers. 2015 was the first time I stood there touching the stage, and looking at the pedalboard.
In 2015 it was only the two shows for me: Philadelphia in April, Charlotte in October. In 2016 it was April again, and I was in Pennsylvania again, up in York. Then Millvale in September, which is nearly Pittsburgh, which I didn't know yet that I'd see over and over. Baltimore, the once. Across 2015 and 2016, I only saw 5 shows. And then in 2017, it became what it was for me, because I saw 10: Charlotte again; Union Transfer again; Millvale again. The same room, but actually, in the real world: the same room and the same stage under my hand. I couldn't stand anywhere else. I had to stand in my spot. It was where I stood that first show in 2015, by the pedalboard. I stood there at every single show I went to for nine years.
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2021, The Orange Peel. They play Tidal Wave. I close my eyes and go adrift.
2021, Royal Oak Music Theater. They play Tidal Wave. I close my eyes and go adrift.
2021, The Athenaeum. They play Tidal Wave. I close my eyes and go adrift.
2021, Cat's Cradle. They play Tidal Wave. I close my eyes and go adrift.
2022, Thalia Hall. They play Tidal Wave. I close my eyes and go adrift.
2022, First Ave. They play Tidal Wave. I close my eyes and go adrift.
2022, The Sylvee. They play Tidal Wave. I close my eyes and go adrift.
2022, The Broadberry. They play Tidal Wave. I close my eyes and go adrift.
2022, Bluebird Nightclub. They play Tidal Wave. I close my eyes and go adrift.
2022, The Hall. They play Tidal Wave. I close my eyes and go adrift.
2022, The Bijou. They play Tidal Wave. I close my eyes and go adrift.
2023, The Vanguard. They play Tidal Wave. I close my eyes and go adrift.
2023, Liberty Hall. They play Tidal Wave. I close my eyes and go adrift.
2023, Citizens House of Blues. They play Tidal Wave. I close my eyes and go adrift.
2024, The Caverns. They play Tidal Wave. I close my eyes and go adrift.
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The ritual was always tripartite, for me.
First there was the getting-there: driving, or the long bus ride, letting the rest of life fall away in the anticipation.
Secondly there was the sidewalk: Jon might wave, Brandon might say hey, Peter will be along in his olive drab army surplus hat.
Third was the standing-there, touching the stage or the barricade, feeling the kickdrum, closing my eyes. Always at least one song I've heard them play before, always some familiar motion I'd find myself going into. Listening closely for Jon's new tiny flourishes, listening for Matt to add something in the mix; knowing if I opened my eyes, Peter would be right up there, with the stage lights on the neat straight lines of his suit; knowing I could keep them closed and drift. I could go into the state of being. Being, being, being, the same way it's possible to be every time, touching the stage and feeling the kickdrum; elevated again to the connected self, the eternally-returning self. And then, stumbling out renewed, and starting the car again, thinking: okay, I can go back to my stupid job that I hate, I can do this. They'll tour again in the spring. I'll be there. I'll be back in the car, on my way out. I'll be on the sidewalk, and Peter will be along in his olive drab army surplus hat, and then we'll all be in the big room together again. All of us.
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Hi on the sidewalk; we're making buttons.
Hi on the sidewalk; I got this tape back from Joel in the mail, and it's your move now.
Hi on the sidewalk; I made this, if that's okay.
Hi on the sidewalk; it's great to meet you both.
Hi on the sidewalk; I would love some tea.
Hi on the sidewalk; hold still, you've got a little flower in your hair.
Hi on the sidewalk; my impression is getting good.
Hi on the sidewalk; let's grab breakfast.
Hi on the sidewalk; I still have that t-shirt you gave me.
Hi on the sidewalk; yeah, okay, I'm recording.
Hi on the sidewalk; he saw the driver crawl out through the window.
Hi on the sidewalk; we have temporary tattoos and I just shaved my head, so.
Hi on the sidewalk; that's a tornado siren.
Hi on the sidewalk; you can do an impression of what I look like during Tidal Wave.
Hi on the sidewalk; we're decorating cookies.
Hi on the sidewalk; tiny paintbrushes, small details.
Hi on the sidewalk; no, we can't make that double-bill show, we have to get him to the airport, yeah. It's so funny to see you here again. That first show, I got here at like, 2—I was sitting right there on the sidewalk, see?
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I found myself, in June 2025, standing in a field. Watkins Glen International is a beautiful track, and the "Boot" of the course is idyllic, with wildflowers and trees, and birdsong still audible when the cars run. They were running: we had come out for the IMSA race. I put my hand on the chain link fence, and we watched the new Aston Martin prototype sail past us with its high whine. The new Cadillac prototypes rumbled by nearly at the same moment, their throaty engine noise so low and powerful that my water bottle vibrated in my hand.
"Okay," I said, "When the Cadillacs go by, and they're super low? And then the Aston has that, like—" I don't know how to describe it, but I try. "—that high, y'know, zrrrrrreeeoowwwww... that's great. I love that."
Peter Hughes, grinning and nodding, said: "Yeah. That, right there, is an ancient recipe."
Walking back to the car-camping site on the other side of the speedway, Peter explained: "Back when I was younger and going to vintage races, they were running these 60's Ferraris and big-block Cobras at the same time. And when the bass rumble of the Cobras would come by, and then you had the V12 on the GTO wailing up over it, that's, like... that's music."
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Peter Hughes went to those vintage races a lot, as a young man in southern California. Now that he's a proud Rochesterian, he's been going to races at Watkins Glen for years. He describes it as one of his favorite places, and he reiterated it when we returned to the Boot during the last leg of the 6-hour race.
When I fold my arms over the top bar of the chain-link fence—the stage barricade, ready to be gripped and leaned on, to rest against—and the Whelen Cadillac comes by in first again, low and rumbling—you stand ten feet from the kickdrum because you want to feel it, physically, presently, with no interference—I catch the distant note of the Aston coming from uphill. I close my eyes to listen to the music.
This is not my ritual. This is not my site of re-creation. This is not my eternal return. There is no more "one room where we are all together like this" anymore; and so, the conduit I had to sacred time for nine years of my life is severed. And the conduit was weaker to begin with: I am not Eliade's archaic human who can abolish history when the New Year comes. I am the modern, historical human who understands the irreversible forward motion of time, and the terror of history: what is lost is lost, and something new must take its place, and be reckoned with. We're afforded very few opportunities to experience sacred time, in the limited capacity left to us to experience the return at all.
But when I hear the engines coming, I open my eyes, and I turn my head away from the track, to Peter in his olive drab army surplus hat. The Wayne Taylor Cadillacs and the Aston pass by, low and high notes intertwining just like they did at a vintage race in Riverside some 40 years ago.
The rest of the field drones by in front of us. The Aston rounds the bend, and wails away behind us as it circles the Boot. We can still hear it faintly in the distance for a few long seconds. Peter, looking out at the track, breaks into a grin.
Other Essays: August 25th, 2024: Exit Blues