It’s a Saturday night in August and my third-floor apartment is packed with the usual mix of friends and strangers, neighbors and college kids, traveling band members and Boston DIY scene staples. The room feels heavy and humid. There are 50 people in a room meant to hold 15, it’s 90 degrees outside, we have no AC, and the windows are sealed so as to not leak sound. The neighbors already threatened to call the cops once tonight. One of my favorite local bands, Krill, are playing through songs from their new-ish album Lucky Leaves, smart and sad and noisy as hell rock songs fit more for a basement than our living room. “This is our last DIY show with Luke,” Krill singer Jonah Furman says about the band’s drummer, a/k/a Lucky, who is about to move to London for grad school. (His drum set takes up half of the room.) Jonah hops over an amp and gives Luke a kiss goodbye, before tearing into “Theme From Krill,” wherein the whole living room sings along: “Krill / Krill / Krill / Forever / Krill krill / forever and ever,” the absurdity of which is only really apparent now that I’m writing it down. Tonight is also one of the last shows at Dreamahus, where I’ve been living and throwing shows with my friends for two years.
Three weeks later, it’s a Thursday night, almost 10pm, and I’m sitting in the passenger seat of my former editor’s car. We’ve just left an MIT panel on the history and legacy of Boston’s legendary alt-weekly newspaper The Phoenix, where we both worked in March when the paper folded. Now, we’re headed to pick up a salvaged red Phoenix news box; tomorrow night, ‘pallbearers’ will carry the news box in a procession downtown for the Phoenix Funeral. On our way, we pass the apartment that was once Dreamhaus. I think about the Krill show, and the long list of local and touring bands that played over the years: Quilt and Mutual Benefit, Tomboy and Bent Shapes, Majical Cloudz and Squarehead. “They’ll never know,” I think out loud, staring at the shadows of anonymous new tenants in the windows.