We bundle in layers and pack into O’s Prius, ready to blast our ears. The drive over is brief. O forgot their wallet at home, and says they feel off today, a bit fragile. I feel a bit fragile too. We know that as we drive safely in our car to the gig, ICE agents are pulverizing our neighbors from Minnesota to Charlotte and beyond. We’re all hoping the music of the night ahead will comfort that part of ourselves that is unsoothable.
Or if nothing else, it feels good to be together. I recognize the ticket person Billie at the door: they lovingly officiated a friend’s punk gay wedding a few months ago. Billie co-runs Slang Church, the DIY music series hosting the event tonight. $13 a head, we comment “thank you for this, thank you thank you” in the Venmo comments.
In the backyard, twenty or so people in monochrome black are milling around, talking quietly. When Cami Ortiz of Otracami soundchecks, her voice is silvery, shimmering through the air like a snake, and she sounds so casual when she asks how it sounds, if the balance is ok. Enthusiastic thumbs up in the air; Hollering feels crass in a group so small.
When Otracami begins the show, without introduction, it takes the audience a few minutes to recognize we’re no longer in soundcheck territory. By the second song, people have come closer, no longer talking amongst each other. Cami commands attention without fanfare: her lyrics feel as if they were penned on the backs of envelopes or receipts, quick glimpses into people and moments, deftly unfurling. BART’s red line screams in the background, little butter-yellow windows flashing through the trees, each panel a room shuttling our neighbors home. Cami closes her set and tears prick our eyes: “Picture you on the train/Casting shadows on the lake/I'm much the same and you too/But something brought me back here/Back to you/And I'm not afraid anymore.” The song rises like steam from a portal in open rail tracks.
Between Otracami and Maria BC, O points out all the hats around us, and points to me: “You’re included.” I’m wearing a red pointed bonnet knitted for me by a friend, my security blanket, and it feels shy amongst the Cool Hats around us. They are Vintage. They are rounded, furred, clipped to everyone’s cool haircuts with long silver hairpins. I like bold fashion proclamations, even if they make me feel awkwardly cutesy. Someone wearing a face mask bounds down the stairs, waving enthusiastically. I don’t recognize them, but assume we must have met before; when they re-introduce themself, we’d met at a poetry workshop last year. They pull a chocolate chip cookie out of their pocket and offer it to our group, nestled in its crumpled napkin. Sometimes it is nice to be offered crumbs.
When Maria BC’s set kicks off, their songs are accompanied by pre-recorded backing tracks of brass and ambiguous electronics. The sound system here is awful. The singers deserve better, and I contemplate whether to pitch a crowdfunded upgrade. Rian’s voice is often fuzzed and fleece-like in their recordings, enticingly hard to parse, but this mic is decimating them, especially frustrating, because much of what they’re sharing is unreleased and I can’t make out most of what they’re singing. I wish I had glasses for my ears.
As the set progresses, they invite us to sit on the ground, and my crew sits, but the rest of the audience stays standing, sharpening the contrast between the Cool Standing Hat People and our tiny seated bonnet corner. Maria BC’s set reminds me of a trail camera set to capture wildlife: signs of life shivering subtly in and out of frame. At least a malfunctioning microphone forces the listener to squint, focus, lean in closer.
Another break, and it’s getting colder, and I’m getting tired of the PA system’s menace, so we move to the stairs, preparing a graceful exit midway through the final set. The stairwell affords a perfect view: someone is swiping through the dating app Feeld from the dancefloor. I sneak a look from above their head, observing their taste and impulses. This eavesdropping of the eye is why it is so important to get thee to the gig!
As Slake takes the stage for the night’s final set, multiple hats are spotted: one pageboy, and a striped Y2K number donned above two long rattails. A true indie apparatus has arrived. A theremin hums gleefully, and lead singer Mary Claire is confident, joyful, midway through the band’s first-ever tour in honor of the new album, “Let’s Get Married,” with plenty of energy still left to rumble. The audience bobs their heads, the closest thing to dancing we’ll get at a show like this. I don’t feel the need to propose to anyone after listening, but I do itch to flash a gaudy rock on my finger just for the attention.
We leave Oakland Secret, feeling so fond. Otracami’s words echo in my head as we leave: “You gave me something back I thought I'd given up/It's big, it's small/It turns me inside out/I thought I'd disappear/But I'm here with you now.” We head home feeling subtly changed, strengthened, more tethered to one another. The sky’s streetlights flicker as if they agree.
