Navigating the labyrinth of dating apps can often feel like wading through a digital swamp. Amongst the endless stream of profiles, the generic bios, and the questionable intentions, finding a genuine connection on Tinder can feel like striking gold. As a New Yorker with a healthy dose of Tinder skepticism, I was intrigued when I matched with Paul. He was French, bore a striking resemblance to a young Bob Dylan, and played in a band. In the chaotic world of online dating, these details felt promising enough to warrant an in-person meeting.
We decided to meet at Otto’s Shrunken Head, a dimly lit tiki bar known for its strong drinks and dive-bar charm, where Paul’s band, Electric Discharge Machine, was scheduled to play. The bar, bathed in an eerie green glow, hosted a small gathering of perhaps eight patrons, lending the scene an air of clandestine intrigue. Two seasoned metalheads manned the bar, their figures slouched beneath the bar’s tropical decorations. In the near-empty space, spotting Paul, my Tinder match, was effortless.
“Ça va,” he greeted me with a hug. “I must go, we are about to play.” Paul disappeared into the back room, presumably to prepare for his set. I ordered a vodka soda and stood for a moment, the anticipation of the evening hanging in the air. Soon, a low hum began to vibrate through the room as Electric Discharge Machine started their soundcheck. The audience was sparse – just five people, three of whom were women. To my utter surprise and slight horror, I recognized one of the women in the dimly lit corner booth as a colleague from work. My mind raced, concocting elaborate yet flimsy excuses for my presence at this obscure bar. Just then, Paul took the stage, launching into their first song, “Around the Glorious Sun.” His voice, resonant and deep, echoed the gravitas of Leonard Cohen. Suddenly, my self-conscious anxieties about this Tinder date dissolved. Electric Discharge Machine, despite their somewhat uninspired name, were surprisingly captivating. Throughout their set, Paul, center stage, coaxed mesmerizing melodies from his guitar. As he swayed to the rhythm, we swayed with him; when he let out soulful “ooo’s,” we instinctively responded with appreciative “ahh’s.”
Despite the room’s emptiness, an undeniable flirtatious energy permeated the air, fueled by the fact that everyone present seemed to be subtly (or not so subtly) checking out the lead singer, my date. After their encore, Paul hopped off the stage and began to weave his way through the small crowd, towards us – the four women in attendance. He proceeded to kiss the back of each of our hands in a theatrical, almost performative gesture. As he reached me, my co-worker, finally placing me, approached.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, her tone laced with polite yet unmistakable suspicion.
“Seeing my friend’s band play,” I offered, a half-truth escaping my lips.
“Is your friend Paul?” she pressed.
“Yes.”
“And did you meet Paul on Tinder?”
My heart sank. I glanced at my Tinder match as he continued to greet his other “dates.” It dawned on me with a jolt of disbelief: we were all at Otto’s for the same date. Tripled booked. Pawns in a bizarre, modern-love quadrangle. The hypnotic spell cast by Paul’s music shattered, and one of the other women abruptly pulled Paul outside for a confrontation. I trailed behind them, witnessing Paul, a slender, six-foot-tall Frenchman, throwing his arms up in a gesture of defense against one of his bewildered dates. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeated, his voice laced with a mix of guilt and desperation, “I just wanted girls to come to my show!”
My blonde colleague, emboldened and indignant, poked Paul in the chest, launching into a spirited lecture on the unspoken ethics of Tinder dating. The members of Electric Discharge Machine, catching wind of the unfolding drama, emerged from the bar, forming a huddle of amusement, doubled over in laughter as the other dates, realizing the full extent of Paul’s deception, began to disperse and head home. Paul, masking his embarrassment with a forced smile, turned to me, assuring me that this was a first-time offense, or at least, the first time he’d been caught.
He proceeded to explain, in a somewhat convoluted justification, that as an international band trying to break into the New York music scene, self-promotion was a constant uphill battle. It wasn’t that people weren’t going to live shows anymore, he argued, but rather that it was incredibly difficult to get anyone to notice your live show amidst the city’s overwhelming noise. “We were trying to save the night by inviting people,” Paul insisted, “When we arrived at Otto’s Shrunken Head, the place was deserted. Just the bartender and this… older woman who seemed a bit unwell, she kept falling over. Twice. We had to help her up.”
So, Tinder for show promotion, it turns out, can be a thing. Forget candlelit dinners, chivalrous gestures, or any semblance of traditional courtship. This is modern dating in the age of digital promotion. And with that revelation, I thought, well, gotta go, I think I have a date lined up with someone I met in the comments section of an Amazon review.
