There are teens in front, a few thirty somethings behind, and a crowd of parents watching their children from the balcony. Tonight the Sinclair is an exhibition of who wore it frumpiest and a part of me wants to hate everyone here in that I DISCOVERED THEM FIRST, YOU ARE SO LATE jealousy. Amidst all of my excitement, though, I forgot that Wet does not play the music that is exactly meant for a concert. It is the kind of music that I can play softly at my desk because nothing about it is offensive. It is my secret anthem propelling me towards the life I want for myself and the successes I have not yet reached. It is sing to in the car music and cry to in the shower music. None of their songs really are anthems, though, and as Kelly Zutrou (still recovering from a cold) opened with And my face turned to red from drinking all that deadwater and then again when you said I was my mothers daughter I wondered for the first time if I would be disappointed.
Wet does not buy into the three word chorus repeated for four minutes. So clearly identifiable is the crumbling of a relationship – the hard breakup with a partner who was once a best friend and the lonely aftermath. They are harsh lyrics with even harder truths nestled into careful editing and layered minimalism.
Coming through the stereo Don’t You is perfectly edited and on stage each song is immaculately rehearsed. Not one lyric nor one note is out of place. What is normally quiet and subdued is punctuated with the addition of a drummer and lighting that unexpectedly enhances the drop in each song. When Kelly leaves the stage in homage to her band mates, there are floor to ceiling cheers. There is no imbalance of talent. Wet is the Earnest Hemingway of pop-ish music – genius and edited and slightly alcoholic from the looks of their Instagram.
Mostly, people just stand around holding their PBR’s and nodding their heads for a few hours. Still, the floor is shoulder to shoulder and after I made my way to the front right corner – close but not too close to the bar – there is no getting out. About midway through their set I hear the familiar chords to Don’t Wanna Be Your Girl and the otherwise complacent crowd erupts. (This was the song sampled on Khloe Kardashian’s Instagram, after all.) There is a girl not more than thirteen on the balcony singing and dancing along. I can hardly remember the romantic goings on of middle schoolers, but I hope she will learn from these hymns. Kelly gives a shout out to her home town – Jamaica Plain – and remarks that she feels like she knows everyone in the crowd, from her younger sister in the front row to the guy in the back that hollered THATS MY COUSIN ON THE STAGE!