There is no light. Somewhere, a rat shuffles his lazy feet. Rivulets of putrid water drip from cracks in the ceiling. The heater churns and groans, spewing forth hazy clouds of molten dust. If you’re a top-notch hipster, this should be your home.
Hot, rank and musty, the basement of Ministry is the favored gathering spot for Oberlin’s newest wave of two-belted and spiky-haired Roland Barthes devotees, and if you don’t make the scene in an (un)timely fashion, you just might miss out. The beneficent host of countless erratically-managed rock-and-roll shows featuring bands hailing from the national underground and local circuits, it is Oberlin’s sole vital breeding ground for bacteria-derived throat infections, beer-fueled wackiness and low-level rock star posturing.
I once deemed this extreme localization of the hipster aesthetic as unfortunate, bemoaning the noticeable lack of alternate outlets for my own sloppy musicianship and self-indulgent exhibitionism. Perturbed by a perceived increase in lackluster performances, an apparent decrease in audience enthusiasm and a rash of mundane, boorish behavior, I lost interest in the so-called “scene,” as my bemused tolerance blurred rapidly into unchecked disdain. What happened, I cried, as I abandoned these precious happenings for nights spent guzzling cheap merlot and watching “Iron Chef” reruns with my equally disillusioned housemates. My love for music and these gorgeously appointed people was scarcely intact. The forum was swiftly losing its appeal, and I fretted ceaselessly that this noisy post-ironic Camelot had crumbled completely.
Only after witnessing the bountiful array of splendid musical performances at Ministry’s May party, could my deep-seated fears finally be put to rest. From the mannered double-bass mayhem of The Nodes, to the fractured meta-fictive garage noise of The Facial Expressions, to the high-octane math rock of The Kurt Mask, energetic performances by local acts provided a consistently entertaining accompaniment to the stellar touring band, Columbus’s own The Means.
The newly-spawned Haze-Mats, led by Art Library employee Abby Glogower, got things off to a rousing start with a short but inspired set of loud old-school rock and roll. They were followed by Samuel Weisberg’s infamous Sodomy and Garfuckal, a trio of eager young punks paying a very long, very well-received tribute to the music of their beloved Simon and Garfunkel. As The Nodes wrapped up a swaggering display of booty-shaking showmanship and musical fortitude, The Means took the stage, and began to unleash a ferocious aural assault upon the ever-growing audience. Indeed, the mellow offstage demeanor of these fuzzy-eyed Ohio cats belied their performative fury. Backed by the frenzied sonic textures wrought by the other Means, the lanky frontman abused his six-string, and howled like a cross between Bon Scott and an enraged Jack White.
Drunk, sweaty and thoroughly enthused by this consummate rock spectacle, the crowd danced wildly. While zipping up my trousers in the bathroom upstairs, I overheard someone referring to The Means as a refreshing non-polarized take on the burgeoning neo-garage rock scene. That’s all well and good, but they could have been Sabbath on speed for all I cared. Veteran Ministry stalwarts The Facial Expressions and The Kurt Mask closed the show with hard-hitting crowd-pleasing sets, bringing a triumphant, fulfilling end to a long and lovely night.
Clearly, this was a special evening, a magical moment in time that served as a gutsy pre-cursor to subsequent weekend events that would, in turn, rattle the very foundation of what I deemed rational truth. Perhaps spurred on by memories of la musique rock and a mess of tasty pre-contest barbeque, the greatest softball team on earth, Thunderpussy, won a decisive and intensely visceral ideological victory in the Sunday championship game against the reptilian Conservatory cohorts of the profoundly lame squad Southern Comfort. Could there be a connection? I think so! Thank you, Thunderpussy. Thank you, Ministry.