Busting (a move/a gut) at Bowery Ballroom

TOTALLY UNEDITED VERSION
(as in grammar as well as content)

Brit Night At Bowery Ballroom

by Rebecca Smith

How can an evening that starts with a pint and a puzzle possibly go wrong? So I sat with my Sudoku, sipping my Stella (ok alliteration over now) waiting for the show to start at the Bowery Ballroom on Tuesday night. I was supposed to be going with a friend, but she came down with Avian Bird Flu or something at the last minute and was unable to attend. So I ditched the ticket with some freaky girl outside, and then quickly ditched her, and sat in the corner being geeky and doing the crossword. The overheads were blaring the Bloc Party album, which I thought to be slightly incongruous with the line-up, but I went with it, it’s a good album. I had almost finished my puzzle when the opening act finally came on, so I decided to finish it before going up to the stage area.

I ascended the rickety staircase to find a stark landscape of low-lit aging concert hall with small islands of British people congregating in cliques and generally ignoring the act, Plan B. In fact, there were almost far too many Brits, even in New York. I had yet to encounter a fellow American. Should I have been concerned? I started getting worried when I realized I had obviously not gotten the memo about the fancy dress. Everyone was way too hipster for me to pass. I was not wearing the regulation skin tight jeans, or sporting the uniform bleached out unkempt mullet, which apparently is the coolest thing since it was actually cool circa never (in my opinion at least). Hats and much odder accessories abounded. And here I was in jeans and a t-shirt. Clearly I was destined to be an outcast in this crowd, which is ironic because their whole look started as the style adopted by social outcasts, and is now excessively trendy. Hmmmmm.

Moving on. I had no expectations, I had never heard or heard of this band before. Plan B and his drummer, Cassell “The Beatmaker,” form the basis of this band. Plan B sounds like the East Enders’ tamer version of Eminem or a poor man's attempt at a hybrid Dizzee Rascal and The Streets, a pale faced storyteller who rhymes to a rock instrumental. They labeled themselves hip-hop, but the evolution of that word can be applied to Destiny’s Child as well. Draw your own conclusions. They raged and swore their way through the set. I thought the sound was pretty strong but fairly repetitive, and the content was a bit harsh for me. I am all for a bit of “f***” and “s***”, but it helps to use other words as well, you know, so it doesn’t sound like some R-rated Morse Code. Since I was among the minority group (ie people that were paying attention to the band), I could not tell what sort of effect th e music had on the crowd. Studies have shown that prolonged exposure to media with a violent slant will have a detrimental effect on the receiver’s disposition. I am unsure if all of it was a bit of role-playing or if Plan B really is that angry, but luckily their set ended before I could be incited to start a riot of one, or before it made the rest of the crowd inexplicably disgruntled.

Next up is Boy Kill Boy. This band has been described as “hotly anticipated” and “eagerly awaited,” which is fitting as that is precisely what I did for approximately a half hour, alone, surrounded by self-proclaimed cool people, praying the friend I was supposed to meet would just text me already because my self-esteem was starting to seriously suffer. Thankfully, between some odd Scottish guys in ugly jumpers chatting me up (although they might have been explaining the Theory of Relativity for all I knew as their Glaswegian accents were so thick, it only sounded like a peculiarly Scottish form of Tourette’s of “arrrrrrrr… world… shrubbery... arrrrrr… love… chickens… aye… thanks for all the fish… och wee lassie”), watching the atomic clock, and mentally calculating the probability of my making it through the throng of pop-rockers to the loo, the bar, and back before the band started...the time just flew by.

Before they even went on, I heard some British girls (where are all the Americans in new York?!?!) frantically greeting one another with "I was so worried I had missed Boy Kill Boy, that I took a cab instead of legging it!" I'm not sure if there is significance to vehicular transportation versus manual, but they seemed excited about the band, anyway. The boys seemingly just appeared on stage, I'm sure in reality it must have involved some walking, skipping, or jumping, but I must have been too busy trying to decipher a foreign language to have noticed. So there they were, the music had already kicked into gear as Chris, the lead vocals/guitar, was making their compulsory introductory statements ("Hello New York" and all that rot). A bit of blah blah blah later, they launched into "Back Again," a recent single. Their live showing is wonderfully akin to their particular brand of music: a bit frantic, excessively energetic, and there is the occasional showboating. One grows tired just watching Shaz, the drummer, beat his little heart out while his hair dances to the tune. Kev, the bassist, is bouncing around so much, you only catch a glimpse of his face when he does his bit of backup vocals. Pete stamps the rhythm for his faux-ivories out so quickly, at times one worries he may be launching into a seizure (this suspicion came about after a long strand of saliva dangled from his lip for a bit unnoticed), but he plays too well for this to be true. And Chris, well Chris is mugging for cameras and winking at all the girls making them swoon at his smouldering eye-contact (NB, if you would like to get Chris's smouldering eyes look, go pick up MAC's coloured eye cream in Gun Metal, as seen in Marie Claire). This must be tiresome and a terrible strain to him, I'm sure, as he is often calling for a beer.

All joking aside, the boys put together an enthralling set, judging by the crowd's response. I saw dancing, no seriously, actual dancing....in NEW YORK!!!! Yes yes, I know, you think I am exaggerating, or mistook someone with a nervous twitch, but no, I definitely witnessed dancing. Albeit, odd jerky movements that looked as though they were lifted from a 1980's Solid Gold episode or perhaps "The Fresh Prince"'s Carlton, but it was definitely purposeful "rhythmic" motion that could, in some dimensions, be classified as dance. I was almost too shocked to register that they played a new song, but luckily, the sharp pain resulting from my jaw hitting the floor jarred my attention back to the stage. Pete kicked it off with an introduction saying it was about the girl who taught him to play piano, and it was called "Ivy Parker." It was of particular interest to me since it was bit of a departure from the rest of the material in terms of tempo, and it was something of theirs I had not heard before. I quite liked it, and told Pete as much when he conducted an informal survey later. Then they got back to the formula with "Suzie" (which got the Japanese tourists in a tizzy....where did they come from? Did they bring hob nobs and Jaffa cakes?), "On and On", "Civil Sin" and the like. Overall, I thought it was an enjoyable set that would have geared up nicely to The Rakes as a crowd warmer. Unfortunately, we were forced to endure the Towers of London in between, which acted like ice down the pants--an abrupt and very uncomfortable sensation.

If asked for my opinion, all I can offer is an educated guess. My initial reaction to seeing the band was, "Ha ha, good one, guys!!" They looked so much like an amalgamation of all the 80's hair bands and satires of 80's hair bands that I half expected the drummer to explode. I saw the lead singer posing for a photographer in the hallway; he seemed to need to "get into character" and his poses were just so affected I thought they were choreographed. It was all just too scripted for them to be serious. It had to all be one very elaborate act; perhaps Rob Reiner was follwing them around filming a "rock-umentary." Or so I thought. As time drew on, and the joke wore thin, I started to pay attention to the crowd. Some, like myself, were all very entertained by their facetiousness, and the rest were taking it seriously. Some girls, dressed like Motley Crue groupies, knew all the words and were dancing around like they had forgotten to take their Ritalin. Hmmm, was this all a huge scripted event with lots of ironic characters, or were these people serious? The cold hand of fear slapped me across the face right about the time the arm of one of the aforementioned girls did the same. Well, that did it. Between abusing the audience (I think that girl actually got a concussion from that flying mic stand, you meanies), personifying clichés (oh yes, aren't you just so punk rock spitting at people from atop the speaker?), and just being WAY over-the-top (was it necessary to get into a scuffle with that guy from MTV2, who really wants to see two skinny white boys in a fight outside of "Jerry Springer"?), I began to lose my sense of humor. Maybe these boys weren't just taking the piss. Maybe they really believed this was the key to musical success. Well, it all went over like phlegm-flavored beer. The crowd was none too pleased with the outcome, especially when they realized none of the band members were going to explode. Insults and other objects started to fly between the stage and the audience, so I sought out other activities. It was at this point that I attempted to secure some face time with the boys from Boy Kill Boy, which they "eagerly anticipated."

Well, perhaps that is not exactly true. I accosted Kev at the bar. He had the look of a deer in headlights and might have agreed to anything provided it meant I would walk away from him with great haste. So he shrugged me off with a "find us after this set," as though they were really into The Towers performance (and if they were, they have just lost points in my book). Fine fine, I hate to interrupt, so I go back and stand around in a less populated area but still keeping my eye out for flying limbs, bottles, or phlegm (yeah it was pretty much all out war by that point). Luckily, my dilligence paid off and I survived The Towers performance, and immediately went into search-and-destroy...I mean interview.....mode, with Boy Kill Boy as my target. Well, here's the rub. See, I like to think of myself as FABULOUS (that's right, in ALL CAPS), but as it happens, reality likes to intervene on my inner monologue sometimes. On this night, it turned out the boys had an (may or may not have been pre-arranged) engagement with MTV2. So I am relegated to "maybe later, doll" category, as I am not in any way related to TV, let alone MTV, nor do I have a readership that comes anywhere near the numbers of viewers of MTV2. So from a marketing perspective, I totally understand this decision. From an irrational, wholly emotional "oi pricks" point of view, I have decided to hate on Boy Kill Boy for the rest of the night. They won't mind, because they won't know...they won't talk to me. Hmmmppphhh...but I'm not bitter. (NOTE: luckily, I am forgiving...and persistent, and stalked the boys via myspace -marvelous invention- and secured the "promise" of an interview at their show the next night, and therefore gave up my one girl anti-BKB campaign in favor of a story featured in a later article).

I went down to the bar to get a drink before The Rakes' set. I walked back up in search of my friends, and instead walked right back into those weird Scotsmen. Ugggghhhh, am I cursed? After an "oops I accidentally spilled my beer, must go get another..." (sorry, beer lovers, but it had to take one for the team) I went off in search of my friends again, and found them just in time for The Rakes. Ahhhhh finally. The Rakes burst onto the scene in a flaming ball of energy, or at least that’s how I felt. The music so quickly paced, one can not help but to start bouncing around in time with the band. The influence of Blur is evident in the rhythms, but The Rakes are slightly more rough around the edges. Where Blur was meticulous and very cleanly cut, The Rakes are brash and impulsive sounding. Though they seem the less polished version of Franz Ferdinand., it is not so easy to discount them. Yes, they are bunch of skinny Brit boys (which apparently is how the “skinny-as-rakes” boys got their name), but so are half the bands on the scene. Yes, each of their repertoires contains songs clocking in at over 100 beats per minute. Yes, the style and the sound are somewhat comparable. But we already knew there is nothing new under the sun. To make matters worse for the boys, I hear they are now on the Top Shop soundtrack. Well perhaps this is good for their income, but I fear now I will forever associate them with a desire to kill or maim the swarms of hyper-trendy girls blocking my way to the queue in the Oxford Street one.

Luckily, I liked them before all this, and liked them better after seeing them at the Bowery Ballroom. The dancing came back, insofar as hopping about and tossing drinks onstage is dancing. The set seemed to please the punters, if pleasure is shown by copious amounts of beer being flung about. The boys mucked through without so much as blinking an eye at the debris falling around them. I was surprised, I would have gone all DIVA-ish on the crowd if they started throwing bits and bobs at me, or at least thrown something bigger and badder back at them. The pulse-pounding beats knocked out by Lasse on drums, complemented the hard line bass of Jamie. Alan’s nasal vocals twang along with the slide-rule sound of Matthew’s guitar that connects the ever-changing focal points of the music. Alan stares crazily into the crowd, while blurting out the lyrics and clapping madly. It could just be his eyes, or perhaps there are drugs involved, but it gives him the look of a madman on the loose with a microphone at his disposal. Makes it all very exciting. They played "Terror," "Retreat," "All Too Human," "Strasbourg" as an encore, and with the prelude of some loser in the crowd-- "Yes sir, we will play '22 Grand Job.' Yes, sir I heard you the first time"-- they played that as well. Yes, it is all comparable to Franz Ferdinand, but I like Franz Ferdinand, so why shouldn’t I like The Rakes? I like the sound. I like the beat. I like dancing to it. I like drinking to it. I like listening to it. I like watching it. The boys on stage are the personification of their sound. Frantic kinetic energy held on a short leash. And I like it. Good on ya, boys!! Hope to see you next time around.

• Also visit this guy Chris and his Music Snobbery for some funny observations, and because he was nice enough to let me borrow some of his Towers pics