A Detour in Harvard Square

“You know,” I said, “I’m not even sure where we are supposed to go.”

Jess looked at me and shrugged. She was wearing a sequined jacket, and as she moved the light from street lamps sort of bounced off her shoulders. We were standing in that alley between Border Cafe and LF, the one that separates the Coop into two distinct countries—books, Harvard merchandise.

Then, Frances arrived, Blackberry in hand. “Ready?” I said. We were.

It was Thursday. It was nighttime. We were late for a concert.

We walked down the stairs into Veggie Planet, through the doorway and into Club Passim.

Club Passim—a subterranean music venue on 47 Palmer Street, in the heart of Harvard Square—books new and established folk and acoustic acts nightly (and by that I mean every night, seven days a week). It has been a musical institution for over 50 years, since its start as Club 47 in 1958. The venue secured a place in America’s cultural history as an epicenter of the folk movement in the 60s, hosting legends like Joan Baez, like Joni Mitchell, like Tom Rush, Judy Collins, Suzanne Vega, and Bob Dylan.

Club Passim rightly earns a mention in most Boston guidebooks. I looked. It appears in “Rough Guide to Boston,” “Fodor’s 2009 Boston,” “The Boston Globe Guide to Boston,” “Phantom Gourmet Guide to Boston’s Best Restaurants,” “Frommer’s Irreverent Guide to Boston,” and in “Signpost Guide New England.” It is also mentioned in “The Complete Idiot’s Travel Guide to Boston.” And I had never been before last week.

I am a Senior. I have lived in Harvard Square for almost four years. Even idiots knew about Club Passim. What’s worse than an idiot? A moron, maybe. I guess I was a moron.

At the door, I waved a print-out, a ticket confirmation. A man with silver hair, glasses, all in black, showed Jess, Frances, and me to our table. His name was Jim. By then the opening act had started and we stumbled through the dark, through aisles tightly packed with tables and chairs. We apologized for bumping the knees of strangers, for stepping on their feet.

“Sorry,” we said.

A group of middle-aged men and women had claimed our table. Jim intervened and we stood nearby and crossed our arms. Waitresses pushed past with trays of vegetarian pizza and pitchers of water. The opening act—a man with a page-boy cap and a full beard—picked the strings of his guitar. He sang about Austin, Texas, about fairy tales, about a sun so hot it burned holes in your skin. We gave up on our table and Jim pointed to another. We sat and ordered beer. We felt out of place, in the way. We waited for the headliner to take the stage, a British singer-songwriter named Laura Marling.

I’m no expert, but I know Laura Marling is good. (I’ve been listening to folk, to folk-pop, since my mom sent me James Taylor’s self-titled CD in a camp care package when I was nine; I wanted something by Christina Aguilera, and complained bitterly).

Last year, Laura Marling released her debut album, “Alas I Cannot Swim,” to much critical acclaim. She was, in fact, nominated for the prestigious 2008 Barclaycard Mercury Prize, which honors recorded music by British and Irish artists. And she’s still just a teenager.

Laura Marling is, you know, cool—hot, indie. So I thought I’d find other Harvard kids at the concert. But they weren’t (and if you were there, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you). In Club Passim, I felt like an interloper, like I was somewhere I wasn’t meant to be. But then Laura Marling walked on stage, and I thought I might have found an ally.

She stood in front of the microphone, guitar in hand, pale and fragile-looking. She wore skinny jeans and a grey sweater, white-blonde hair piled high atop her head. She sang about breakdowns and breakups, about depression. Her voice was gentle, sometimes, and rough. She looked sad and nervous. Awkward. Between songs she talked—shyly—to the audience.

“Do any of you go to Harvard?” she asked. And the crowd laughed. Jess, Frances, and I looked at each other. I felt betrayed.

“Shhh,” I said.

And for a moment I pretended that I wasn’t just a Harvard student, I pretended that I lived in Boston and did things like go to Club Passim instead of finals clubs. That between the essays and midterms and endpapers, I took advantage of the destinations listed in Boston guidebooks. Because I forget sometimes, stuck in the so-called Harvard Bubble, that I am in the midst of so much more, so much history and culture.

I am making a list of things to do before I graduate, before I leave New England. Maybe I’ll do some of them.

I need to visit the Institute of Contemporary Art, to walk the Freedom Trail, to crack an oyster at the Union Oyster House. I am afraid I missed all the Red Sox play-off games.