Another
Campus Band Night Meets the Critics
by Denise Grollmus
For
anyone who missed it, last Friday was your opportunity to immerse
yourselves in the display of 20-something year old guitar-slinging
boys with a taste for sexual iconography and you missed it.
Now I never have to second-guess the many times I made the decision
to stay home from high school battle of the bands in 97
my regression Friday night consoled my morbid curiosity and sense
of something lost for a lifetime.
Sophomore Dean Bain said it best: I feel like I stumbled into
a bar in New Haven, Connecticut where a bunch of middle-aged software
designers are playing music on their weekend off. He was more
on the mark than I was in high school this sort of thing
might actually have been endearing.
The line-up could be construed as a tasteful display of a wide range
of genres: everything from sentimental folk rock to the most neo
in neo-death metal. However, in my estimation, it was every aspect
of almost every music scene I wouldnt wish even my worst enemy
to sustain for a trying three-hour stint.
The stage was first occupied by a rather generic, but generically
congruous rock group called Blix, doing a Rolling Stones cover that
was definitely more memorable than their original material. Unfortunately,
the only enjoyable band of the night, The Bleeding Hearts, occupied
a seat on the bill that attempted to drown out their lilting tunes
from the audiences remembrance. The gifted songwriting ability
of senior Jacob Morris, described by junior Katia Brock as soooo
dreamy, was well accompanied by the mellowed-out hooks from
the soul of an old Wurlitzer and the mechanized reverberation of
an atmospheric drum machine a la Trembling Blue Stars.
However, at a pace steadier than the beats most of the bands were
keeping, The Bleeding Hearts were shuffled off the stage, only to
be replaced by a terribly awkward 15-minute glimpse into the world
of Freeform Technotic. Eyewitnesses recount glow sticks, the most
amazing abuse of effects pedals and a fan base consisting of baggy-pant
clad boys with moves like Ned Nederlander. The set was tight, their
fans were content, but I felt like I woke up in a bad dream when
I noticed the boy next to me had a glow stick in his mouth and that
what I was actually hearing was misappropriated Santana.
I wish I could be kinder to the next band for their valiant effort
in a search for irony, but the Lymph Nodes were slightly disappointing.
Hey boys! Hard-edged rock meets old school hip hop was already done
by
Fred Durst. Their stage presence was definitely the most exuberant
and the pseudo groupie screams from friends had its charm, but their
music came off more like watered down white-boy-blues-meets heavy
hop than classically dirty rock meets run-DMC. The last two bands
helped round the night off with a healthy dose of contrived punk
ethics and a return to self-indulgent arpeggios.
Both Heads Failed, the quintessential Ska band, offered up a mediocre
serving of dance hall music mixed with bar chords and impetuously
clumsy dance movements.
Flitch,
the final band of the night, was most likely a highlight for many.
They belted out metal riffage with a ferocity that suggested a style
trying to grab at the apron strings of the death metal legacy, but
fell short into the abyss of prog rock party music,
as described by one unnamed and rather disenchanted attendee.
A final thought: Tonight reminded me of the time I was kidnapped,
remarked Patrick Carney, a prospective student visiting for the
weekend, when I was a kid.
|