Barenaked Ladies – One Week

I have never been a particularly wild partier, so I don’t know how many nights the average person has had come to an untimely end by a visit from a cop. As far as I remember, my count is three, which I presume is well below the national average. Of course, even that is compromised by a technicality. There was the college party where a late arrival was mistaken for the police, and people scattered. Brought down the whole mood, really. Still, it wasn’t REALLY the law coming to smack anyone down for having a far more responsible time with alcohol than most people our parents’ age. Does the specter of a threat count? I feel like it has to if we’re going to run with this premise. And I’m running with it like the under-aged members of my college a cappella group did that night.

The most recent time was also with college-age revelers, but in a quite different scenario. I was 29 and feeling supremely out of place at a party I wasn’t really feeling. I was also in Italy. It was the night after the final exams of the study abroad program I attended, and after a few months of borderline reclusive behavior around my flatmates, it felt only right to join them in the streets to celebrate. This meant a house party, hosted by a local who somehow knew a number of kids in the program. There were balloons everywhere, American-style drinks and mixers, and truly, disturbingly young people. Of course, in Europe, the drinking age is much younger. The noise ordinances, however, are a bit stricter, so when the polizia came a-knockin’, the host knew what was up, and there was a lengthy chat in the kitchen. Windows were closed to prevent noise leakage (and cause heat stroke, so packed was the apartment), and the host continually asked people to calm things down, because he apparently was completely unfamiliar with American youth and their maturity and volume levels while trashed. Eventually, not wanting to risk actual consequences, he shuffled the herd out the door to the Red Garter. I was happy to get on the street as the masses trickled out at a snail’s pace, but didn’t follow to the club. One only can handle so much.

The moment that will forever stick in my mind the strongest, however, was the first time. Who can forget their first time, right? The beers are flowing, the jams are blaring, and suddenly, to quote the wise philosopher Ke$ha, the po-po shuts us down. Everyone has their own story. For us, it was a pool party full of bare-naked ladies.

On the radio.

As I said before, I’m just not a big partier. I like gatherings of friends, music, food and drink. I like to know most of the people around me. I like knowing I can be laid back if that is my mood. This was the culture of party I grew up in, and it’s the one I prefer. I never really grasped the club scene, or the party-full-of-strangers. I want to feel as much a real part of the fabric of the event as is possible for a natural recluse like myself. Gathering for my friend Dave’s birthday over the summers of my youth was all that with a pool thrown in. It always felt totally comfortable and right. Except for that one time.

I recall both tension and laughter. Not nervous laughter, just simple reaction to the absurdity. Still, I’m certain there was a tension when the cop pulled up. “We received a call” always carries a bit of weight at that first moment. The nice thing is, when you’re hardly old enough to drive, you don’t have to take on the greeting of The Law. Welcome to the party, The Law. Please just issue a citation. So we remained tittering in the background.

I am fairly sure the officer’s expert opinion was that someone in the neighborhood simply hated us, because he was dumbfounded as to why he was even at the house to begin with. We all tacitly knew, though, that if it was anything, it was what happens when you get a yard full of kids who love music together in one place on a beautiful day, and it took very little time to identify the culprit. This was the year that Barenaked Ladies’ “One Week” crashed the airwaves, and to a bunch of smartass kids, what’s better than showing off one’s ability to sing nonsense lyrics at rapid tempos? Apparently nothing, since we did it effectively enough to raise the ire of Dave’s neighbors. I don’t think we ever found out who made the call, but I do know that we’ve had far louder parties way later into the night and never had a repeat performance. Eerie. Today is the latest installment. I can’t help but think of the classic jokes from ages past, and the soundtrack to those moments always contains a little BNL.

There is a debate which can be had on the subject of the troublemaker. Is it right to applaud doing what is wrong? Can a line be walked where one is just edgy enough without crossing into “badness?” All I know for sure is this: almost getting a noise violation for a singing along with a band as innocuous as Barenaked Ladies is among the least hardcore things a person can ever do. My friends, I am exactly that non-hardcore. Though, check out that hood-slide in the video. That, I’d like to learn.

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