Observation of the House of Blues

In the fading light of a November night, the air around Landownes Street is buzzing. The sidewalks seem to vibrate, if only slightly, with an energy that can be traced back to the red and blue neon sign blaring the words “House of Blues.”

Nestled in the shadows of Fenway and tucked amongst some ancient and not so ancient history lies the home of one of Boston’s most popular concert venues. The music hall is home to performers big and small, hardcore and hip-hop, which attracts crowds back to the Fenway area even after the stadium lights have grown cold with November frost.

Landsdowne is covered with discarded disks of gum that shine like a trail of blood, spelling out a pattern of summers past, shows past, games past. The street is lined with sleeping cars, the sleeping cars lined with sleeping sidewalks, the sleeping sidewalks carpeted with yellow crinkled leaves. These remainders from October’s chilly nights beg to be swept up, but remain motionless on the cold cement.

Although it is only a Wednesday night, the House of Blues still emanates a pulse and a beat that gives life to this area. Outside the House of Blues, neon clad security guards flank the doors and murmur in steady voices to each other. What exactly they are discussing is insignificant; they are on the outside, they are not apart of whatever is going on behind the heavy blue metal doors. A Boston Police van is parked right in front of the venue in a statement of comfort that is simultaneously unsettling. Whatever is being contained by this wood and cement, bolds and nuts, has a mind of its own and once it is unleashed onto Landsdowne there is no telling where it will go.

Slowly, groups of two and three people begin to trickle out, having tired themselves out in the warmth of the music halls’ beating heart. They weave in between the orange traffic cones that line the perimeter of the House of Blues’ sidewalk space. Their laughter echoes out into the city as they pass Boston’s Best and Original Sausage cart. The proprietor, with a blood red apron covering his beer belly, smiles eagerly and shouts out “Sweet sausages? Anyone?” The passing college kids look back, hunger and desire written on their face, but their feet carry them forward.

The sound of their footsteps dies down and is replaced by the staccato of a street performer. He sets up camp at the top of the street, and the echoing of his empty white, orange, and red containers compete with the dull thudding of the concert inside. His beats are steady yet jarring, unlike the tide of humming, cheering, and wailing coming from the House of Blues. He seems to be waiting for something. Like the wave of taxicabs that flow down the pavement, hungry to be filled with passengers, the drummer is one of many living on the life force contained in the House of Blues. One of many who finds himself on the outside.