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 wouldn’t 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 audience’s 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.”

December 6
February 2002

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