for the record

Author: Emily Temple

Syracuse University's Marshall Street area is about the size of the whole of downtown Middlebury, but dirty, like a real city. This summer, trying to get my cousin to his gig on time, I stopped to ask a studentish-looking loiterer leaning against the fence in what I was pretty sure was the right alley if he had ever heard of the place we were looking for. He hadn't, but before he had even taken a goodbye drag of his cigarette, I noticed the bright bubble letters "FUNK" painted on the wall to my right. We trotted over to discover a set of stairs heading down under the street, the continuing letters 'N' WAFFLES" leading the way. We followed, and my cousin Robert, the trumpet player for the reggae band playing there that night, nodded us both through the door.

Funk 'N Waffles is a brand new music venue in Syracuse, my hometown. Yes, yes, there is good music in upstate New York. Opened in January by two recent SU grads, it serves delicious lychee lattes, coffee, desserts and, you guessed it, waffles. The waffles come in all flavors and fancies - whole wheat, buttermilk, blueberry, whipped cream, ice cream, spinach and feta, pesto - the list goes on. It's an oddity - an underground waffle place that hosts funk bands something like five nights a week - but somehow it works perfectly, and those waffles seem like they couldn't have been replaced by anything else. I mean, how would Funk 'N Pizza sound? Actually, never mind, that sounds kind of good.

Now, I've never been into reggae - or, at least, I've never gotten much past "No Woman No Cry," and I know next to nothing about funk, minus a fleeting romance with Betty Davis. But my Californian cousin Robert, so close to being the twin brother I always wanted and never had, has embarked on a life of traveling around the country with his seven-piece reggae-funk band, Spiritual Rez, so I have had to pay at least some attention. I ordered a waffle, said hi to the trombone player, and settled back to watch them all set up.

When the show finally started, there was none of that hipster shuffle - no one was self-conscious. Everyone danced with their whole bodies, twisting and swaying. One girl in balloon pants was hopping and gyrating right in front, lifting up her hems with closed eyes. Hipsters have their stupid dance moves - hippies have theirs too. But somehow there was something about this kind of movement that I haven't seen at any other kind of show. Sure, there's always that one drunk girl dancing off-tempo in the Juice Bar, not caring what anyone thinks, but this was universal, mutually accepting and much less painful to watch. I found myself softening my cynicism quickly, warming to the obvious bubbling pleasure of the performers themselves and the - dare I say it- loving atmosphere. People were just really happy to be there, happy to be hearing this music. We all danced for a long time.

Reggae shows seem inevitably to be something of a throwback. New music today should be dressed in neon, mixed and remixed by at least one DJ, strange and meandering, or featuring plastic horns and screeching noises. But this music, a reggae-funk infusion played by Berklee School of Music grads, was old and new. Everyone's so obsessed with vintage these days - is it because we're realizing that we've slipped away from a time with more substance? But that's what it was like, a vintage coat found in the basement, familiar and classic, but new and exciting, at least for you.

When it was all over, the secret underground show clung to me as soft-faced hippie children surfaced and slowly dissipated into the usual Friday night throng of tube-top clad Ambers and Tiffanys. I wrinkled my nose, my habitual critical skepticism flooding back, but I was soon hailed by Robert's friends, sweaty and elated from the success of their set, and as I braided back the lead singer's long hair in the alleyway, someone put a flower behind my ear.