By Sean Eshelman
Photos by Jarett Boskovich
Summer never dies in San Diego; it dons a scarf and earthly colors, keeping its people moving, seasonal pumpkin ale in hand. This was our inspiration as we made the short walk from Texas Street to the depths of North Park where Rocktoberfest was attracting a growing number of local music fans.
We could feel a certain autumnal energy as we made our way; the growing thump of the venue’s sound checks hushing our chatter until we were right upon the front gates. We rendezvoused with our group and greeted mutual friends in passing as we entered the venue. First rounds were ordered to ensure our spirits were properly spiced before the coming performances.
We were stalled at the entrance, distracted by the laughter and stories of our friends before being awoken abruptly by the start of The Heavy Guilt’s performance. It was hard to tell if it was the singer’s overflowing growl of a voice, or the resident soul-stompers saw blade percussion that grabbed my throat. Don’t ask me to define rock and roll, all I knew was that all six of us were infected with the psychedelic-folk wall of sound evidenced by closed eyes and rhythmic nods.
No thanks were necessary: roars from a crowd of dancers gave power and presence through until the end of the set. A man on stilts and giant lederhosen herded us towards stage two directly behind us to start the next performance. We set up camp at some covered benches to enjoy The Low Volts. He was a one-man band with as much rockabilly flavor as a malt from Marie’s Diner right down the street. The only percussion came from a single bass drum and with that one kick it was like hammers in all our chests. It hurt so good.
The cinnamon and nutmeg in my Shock Top Oktoberfest gave a feeling of contentment, as if I was perked in front of a fire on a cold evening. That is what autumn is about. A haze of afternoon fog was settling, though not to be outdone by the sun, creating gold stage lighting for San Diego’s best dressed band, The Styletones. These guys were suit-wearing cats you could trust. Mr. Harris, I applaud you for your bravery as much as your voice, not to mention the ladies you danced with, leaving a path of bodies and rhythm in your wake. The real bravery came from a man in front of me, a dancing machine jiving with every thumping bass-line and tasty guitar riff. We shared laughs at his expense.
Our time at the festival had come to an end, but the night was not quite spent. The promise of a feast at The Beachwood followed by a moonlight bay cruise on the Bahia Belle drove us towards our next destination in Pacific Beach. We were apprehensive about leaving our haven in Uptown, but the beach had a magnetic pull on us. We arrived and joined the party in our concert attire. Glamour, the theme of the evening was mocked by sequins and bowties, PB’s take on high fashion. Before long it became apparent that we would rather continue our journey elsewhere. With a “separate checks, please,” we were off.
Leaving the restaurant, we felt an undeniable pull towards the beach which teased us in the distance. Our shoes were filling with sand as we broke through the alley and trudged through towards the waves and thickening fog. I lent out my jacket. I wanted to feel the cold on a night like this. We walked and stumbled in the sand before arriving at the steps leading to the entrance of Crystal Pier. A sign was marked “closed” but the gate was wide open, so in we walked. Between picturesque cottages where weekenders slept peacefully we enjoyed our stroll in the darkness. It wasn’t long before a security guard appeared through the mist and coldly shooed us away. It is always nice to be reminded of the diversity of our beautiful city, beyond the confines of our neighborhood but one must always return home. We returned to Uptown with the sense of contentment that came from a successful autumn night out.
