The Big Green House

Wednesday, June 11, 2003

 

I may be out of it, but I�m still into you

Buzzcocks, Billy Talent, The Thermals, Showbox Theater, Seattle, 6/10/03

The Thermals are a prime example of why I like to catch the opening act. I�d heard them once or twice on the radio, enough to know that I liked their sound but not enough to remember what it was. When they took the stage, I remembered � kinda low-fi, stripped down power trio. Think Death Cab for Cutie, but rockin�. Nothing overwhelming, but absolutely charming, in a gawky, somewhat awkward way. I must confess that I developed something of a band crush on them, collectively. Nothing sexual, mind you. (There are two boys in the band, first off, and while bassist Kathy Foster is not unattractive, I�m very happy with Science Girl, thank you just the same.) I just want to bring them home and make omelets for them. Unless they�re vegans, of course. Um, maybe grits? No, wait, you need milk for grits�. Well, maybe peanut butter toast, I don�t know.

Where was I going with this?

Oh yeah, the inescapable charm of The Thermals. Well, what is it that I find charming about them? I�ll tell you. 1) When we arrived at the club, the bass player was working the merch table* and the guitarist was talking to her and tuning up at the same time. 2) The extent of their stage banter: "Hi, we�re The Thermals, from Portland", "Thank you.", "Thanks", "We�ve got one more song", and "Thanks for listening". Apparently they�re cultivating a Minimalist vibe. It could use a little fleshing out, but they should definitely keep "Thanks for listening". 3) The tiny drum kit (one kick drum, one tom, and three cymbals) used by the tall, skinny drummer. (Duh � who else was gonna use it?). He looked like his arms were about seven feet long while playing, but he got the most sound out of what he had to work with. 4) Since all the other bands� equipment was on stage, they had a really small space in which to perform, and they were still more fun than The Millionaires.

Next up were Billy Talent. Not a person, but a band. Sonically, they�re a rung or two above generic corporate "punk" (and I never ever thought I�d be typing that description, back in the day), but what pulls them out of the shallow but wide pool of mediocrity is the entertainingly spastic nature of their frontman. Picture, if you will, Iggy Pop being channeled by Ed Grimley, backed by an ADD therapy group on a sugar binge, and you�ll have some idea of what was going on. I was going to come down on them a little more severely, but Science Girl suggested that I cut them some slack since they were working so hard. OK, fair enough. SG also said that she overheard someone in the women�s room say that, while she was glad that she�d seen them play, she didn�t feel the need to see them ever again. I�d go along with that assessment.

Which brings us to The Buzzcocks. Proof once again that old guys can still get the job done right. They play a mix of older stuff (�Harmony In My Head�, �What Do I Get?�, �Orgasm Addict�, �I Believe�, etc.) and a bunch of stuff I didn�t recognize which was probably from the new album. Pete Shelley was in fine voice; he broke three or four guitar strings over the course of the night, so he was either playing really hard or using light-gauge strings, or possibly both. He and Steve Diggle kept cracking each other up throughout the show. Diggle seemed to be having the time of his life, perpetually amused, grinning like a fiend and bashing the shit out of his Telecaster. The rhythm section was nice and tight, propelling the show ever forward with hardly a gap in between songs. All in all, a good night out.

With exceptions, of course. Here�s a tip for all you dipshits who think it�s �punk rock� to hurl your plastic cup full of ice (or, in at least one instance, a beer bottle) at the band: it�s not. It doesn�t make you punk, unless you mean in the jailhouse sense. Save that shit for your next kegger, dude. All you�re doing is showing yourself for the asshole you are, while endangering the musicians � those colored lights they use on stage to keep your tiny brain focused on the performance are shining right in their eyes, more often than not, so it�s difficult for them to track incoming projectiles. And for those of you who insist on spitting at the stage: not only are you an asshole, but you�re disgusting, too. Trust me on this one � despite what you may have read somewhere, that was never an acceptable practice. Believe it or not, no one actually enjoys being spit upon. Joe Strummer contracted hepatitis from it, fer crissakes. (8th paragraph) As Science Girl put it: if you want to exchange bodily fluids with the band, go see GWAR.

Those are actually real people up there, playing and singing for your enjoyment. Don�t try to live up to some mistaken idea of what�s expected at a show. Just try to act human and you�ll be fine. If you can�t do that, stay home with your frat brothers and leave the tickets for someone who can.

*When I went back to the merch table after their set, she was there again. I never know what to say in such situations. I wanted to let her know that I enjoyed their work, without seeming like I was trying to kiss ass. I settled on "I�m glad I got a chance to see you guys. You�re very good". She graciously refrained from laughing at me, said "Thanks", and sold me a CD**. And that�s my Brush with Stardom for this week.

**About that CD: kinda same-y, actually, after two listens. Not annoyingly so, but they were much better live. And who isn�t?


bmarkey 6/11/2003 06:24:00 PM