House Concert

Being the scene slut that I am, it’s hard for me to resist adding my name to email listings offering to fill my box with enticing messages about who’s doing what and where. For years, I’ve received emails announcing ticket sales for “house concerts,” but I’ve neither had the time, nor the inclination, to attend one. The word “concert” conjures up visceral memories of fans pushing against me as they reach for the stage; of straining to see the musicians above swarms of heads; and of waiting half-an-hour in line for the bathroom, just to discover that the overused, wet, and usually clogged toilet was second best to the nearest spot between two cars. A “concert” in a house? What masochistic music fiend wants his or her house trashed like a miniature Woodstock?

Recently, upon reading yet another email announcing yet another house concert, two scenes sprang to mind: One, with people crammed into someone’s living room while a musician strums away on a guitar in the corner, the other of a house party like the frat fetes that tortured me during the three minutes I attended college -- electronic instruments blaring from an impossibly over-packed room filled with drunk revelers. Clusters of dumbfucks and no elbowroom ain’t my dig, baby. However, I figured an annoying conglomeration of randoms would make for an interesting story, like the night I watched snippets of Snoop’s porn movie, Doggy Style, right before joining a conga line that snaked through one of San Diego’s historical landmarks. Monday morning, as coworkers gather around the coffee machine, ears are eager for something different – people with interesting lives don’t care what happened last night on the latest, stupefying reality show, so if you want to dazzle them and have fun doing it, you can’t just sit at home watching the telly, my friends. It was with this thought that I entered the info for the next concert into my Treo 600.

Directions to the house came by way of email from the founder of the Meeting Grace House Concert, also the band’s official House Concert Coordinator, Lizzie Wann. Destination -- Berkley Hart in suburbia. I’d heard of the band-duo, but had not seen either Jeff Berkley or Calman Hart perform live. Though I knew they had a following, and were a household name for many San Diegans, I was unable to answer David’s question on the way to the show -- what type of music do they play?

Locating the house reminded me of searching for keg parties when I was a teenager. Winding roads led us northwest past the college area. Balloons tied to an SUV advised us of the location (this was helpful -- addresses can be difficult to distinguish in the burbs), and we found a space across the street for my Barb-mobile. At the top of the steep driveway, a smiling man with a list in his hand stood behind a table set up in the garage. Tickets are reserved ahead of time; space is limited, and shows are known to sell out quickly. Ben, the man with the list, introduced himself as the owner of the house. He located my name, scribbled on the yellow legal pad, and collected my $15 entrance fee.

Another table in the garage offered refreshments, available free-of-charge, provided by the hosts of the concert, Ben and Sue. Both wearing Berkley Hart shirts, they informed the crowd that shirts and the band’s 3 CDs were for sale. Ben and Sue had gone to their first Berkley Hart house concert not two months prior, which inspired them to host one of their own. They both seemed really excited. Sue was all smiles, giggly and energetic, sporting the BH tank top above denim shorts, and short blond hair pulled back in a queue. If I were throwing a concert at my house, surely I’d be wearing jewels, feathers, and a fabulous hat. Their casual attire and relaxed disposition was jarring, as it seemed they had invited disaster to their home and hadn’t even bother to dress for it.

The duo arrived 20 minutes after we did (I’m obsessively doomed to be early). Ben had been drinking, and grew more talkative with each glass of whiskey. Lizzie brought me into the “green room,” a.k.a. “the spare bedroom.” A fine spread of meats and cheeses covered the tops of dressers and tables – Swedish meatballs, pita, hummus, olives and more! Taking a seat on the bed, Lizzie introduced me to the guys. When asked how this all began -- the house concerts with Berkley Hart and Meeting Grace -- Berkley responded, saying, “I was just coming off a tour with the Joel Rafael band when I helped Lizzie move into her house in Golden Hill, and I told her, ‘this would be a great place for a house concert!’” Lizzie loved the idea, and not only agreed to host a show at her new place, but also to organize future house concerts in San Diego.

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