On April 15th, the experimental indie rock band Duster played a show at the live music venue Brooklyn Steel that was, for all the wrong reasons, memorable. According to their website, Duster was formed in the mid to late 1990s releasing some records (Stratosphere and Contemporary Movement) but shortly breaking up, then reforming and recording new songs in 2018. The band mainly consists of two multi-instrumentalists Ewing Clay Parton and Canaan Dove Amber, with Jason Albertini, who left in 2022, also playing on some early recordings.
Doing further research into why Duster vanished, I came across an article from NPR discussing how millennials brought the band back. In the article, the author Marissa Larusso claims that the death of the founder, and subsequent shuttering, of Up Records, which Duster released music under, had more or less forced the band to cease existence, or rather force them to stop releasing music at the very least.
Duster is defined, as per their website, as an experimental, electronic, slowcore band, but these terms do not mean much to those outside of the music world. The music they make is similar to blues; repetitive in its simplicity, but it speaks to an emotional core that other genres just do not embody. It is like old school delta blues for introverted teenagers who spend too much time in their bedroom. Being someone who fits that description I was naturally excited for this concert.
The air of the concert hall was thick with vape smoke, which if you ask me is just as bad as cigarette smoke. The crowd was jam packed and looked as if it were a sold out show. The age disparity between concertgoers was impossible not to notice; some were middle aged, clearly fans since the beginning, while others were so young they had to bring their parents.
Recently, the band has gotten bigger due to the seemingly endless music spreading capacity of TikTok. In fact, this is where I had heard of them. “They got big on TikTok recently,” said an older man to a woman he seemed to be into, “the kids, like, put Stratosphere with surreal images and make a slideshow.” The two could be seen canoodling throughout the night, next to tweens who most likely did not want to see that; all it did was drive home the intergenerational appeal of Duster. When my friend and I arrived, everyone seemed in good spirits and the vibe was stable, but it would not remain that way.
When the opening band, Widowspeak (who went on for far too long), tried to start a song they had to suddenly stop. “Someone needs help up front,” said the lead singer, “can we get someone to help [the audience member]?” she pleaded. The security guards must have plugged their ears, because it took a tortoise’s age before assistance came. The crowd split down the middle, as if someone who could help would reveal themselves – like a cartoon. Eventually, help had arrived and the concert goer’s unconscious body was carried out by two security guards, while her friends – in messy makeup – trailed close behind.
But this was not all that had befallen Widowspeak; they tried to start the song again (a few simple guitar chords), but the lead guitar was not getting a signal to the speakers. It was as if God Himself did not want the show to continue.
After Widowspeak, which was not even noteworthy beyond the previously mentioned complications, it was finally time for the main course, Duster. To start, they played all the hits: the melodramatic The Twins/Romantica, the smashing electronic Orbitron, and of course the TikTok hit Inside Out. The simple, slow rhythm of the music allowed me to remain on beat in my drunken stupor. The vocals, performed by Ewing Clay Parton, were a dreamy, bedroom angelic that you would not expect from someone who looks like they should be in a doom metal band. Hearing some of my favorites had made me forget about the earlier issues, but it would not remain that way.
Evidently, the crowd had never heard of personal space, as they refused to disperse to some room behind us. One older woman behind me was practically right up against the back of my head, and were it not for her 6-foot-something biker boyfriend I would have given her a piece of mind.
What has happened to concert etiquette? Even at hardcore punk shows – where violence is law and shoves are greetings – there are still rules. The kids here kept squeezing, and instead of creating a uniform sea of people, they created a white water rapid. The energy and vibrations were nauseating; I felt like a sailor getting seasick. It had gotten so bad, that my friend and I wandered to a second floor balcony bar, just to regain our composure.
The vibes had gone completely unstable. Kids, and adults, with no conception of space, etiquette, or simple human compassion had turned the crowd to a shaky chunk of kinetic energy. By now, we were at the halfway point of the show and I had enough. No fault to Duster or Widowspeak, but sometimes you know when it’s time to call it. We stumbled out into the humid April night, and for the first time I left a show of my own volition.
