3 days ago
- Entertainment
- Washington Post
She's the bassist in a band of strangers. It's their first (and last) show.
Maddy Knoth shifts back and forth in her red and pink Converse high-tops. She's busy debating early-aughts pop hits with the bandmates she met only a few weeks ago, but can already feel the adrenaline that builds before a live performance.
Their set isn't for another three hours, and the members of newly formed Legends of Limewire are killing time before doors open to the public. Knoth paints her chipped nails with baby blue polish, and waves a piece of notebook paper with a handwritten set list to dry them.
She hardly needs the note. She's played these songs dozens of times. The bass line grooves have sunk into her fingers.
She's ready to play her first concert in her new city.
After living in Memphis for three years, the city's music scene felt small. Knoth knew the other performers at open mic nights and the people who would come see her queer, femme punk band play backyard shows. When she moved to D.C. with her partner in December, she knew she had to start over.
She had to find her way back into a creative scene, to take an active role in forming her identity beyond the corporate world that dominates much of D.C. culture.
So she signed up for Flashband. The 13-year-old program, run by music school 7DrumCity, is a launchpad for Washington's hobbyist musicians. Participants enter a lottery for a slot. Winners attend a meet-and-greet event — speed dating, basically, for musicians. Everyone from young teens to retirees leaves as a member of a new band. About a month later, they perform in public.
Knoth, 25, sort of knows the people she's taking the stage with tonight. This evening they've met each other's significant others for the first time, and learned what their day jobs are. But she trusts them, if not their penchant for Limp Bizkit.
For the past month, they've met up for weekly rehearsals, and Knoth has spent hours in between plucking away in her bedroom. So now, as ticket holders of the sold-out show come pouring into the Atlantis — a grubby venue that holds 450, she feels ready.
The bands have names like the Recessionists, Vote for Pedro and Mom's Spaghetti, and the first ones warm up the crowd with interpretations of Myspace-era hits. The third band begins, and the Legends of Limewire members get their cue to sneak backstage. Knoth meets them at the entrance to a yellow-lit hallway.
'Okay,' she mutters to herself, lifting her shoulders up with a deep breath. She climbs the stairs to the green room.
A Flashband organizer runs through the checklist: 'Chords, cables, pedals, picks…' Knoth grabs a pair of green sunglasses — part of the band's outfit, a nod to the music-pirating site LimeWire that they're named for — and straps her bass guitar over her crop top.
'I really want eight more bars of cowbell,' one of her bandmates says. They were allotted 15 minutes for their set, and it's tight — they've factored in only 15 seconds for claps.
'They're probably not gonna pull us offstage,' Knoth responds.
She talks herself through the set list: 'Take Me Out,' 'Can't Get You Out of My Head,' 'Electric Feel.'
'Let's make it count,' singer Aaron Conrado says.
Their hands fall into the circle formed by their bodies and instruments, then shoot into the air. The beer Knoth sipped helped ease her nerves, but some are bubbling back up. Her bandmates are depending on her bass's steady pulse to keep them together.
When she takes the stage, though, all she feels is excitement — the ease of being back in a spotlight she finds addictive. She looks out to the crowd, which ravels out to the bar at the far end and up across a balcony. It's at least twice the size of any she's played before. She locks eyes with her partner in the front row, who is wearing a shirt with the logo of the band Knoth had in Memphis.
Conrado sings:
So if you're lonely
You know I'm here waiting for you.
I'm just a crosshair
I'm just a shot away from you
Knoth lets her mind and fingers disconnect. Her body leads the groove. She shakes her wavy bob and shouts backup vocals.
She hits every note in her 'Murder on the Dance Floor' solo, and dances as hard as anyone in the crowd.
The audience erupts into cheers.
