tacky and obnoxious... a night at The Majestic

It all started off well enough... going to see The Ragbirds and Bump last night at The Majestic.

Ragbirds started off and were OK, but honestly? I've seen better shows of theirs. A fairly short set and a small early crowd. Nice enough, but not exactly ass-kicking, either.

Bump was new to me and didn't really grab me much. Sure, there were some interesting blends of electronica, groovish funkness, and (oddly) shred-like guitar, but it was far to much in the middle. Might have been mixed badly? Or my expectations were different? A steady wall of sound with no distinctive anything I could latch on to. No consistent groove, no noise sculpting, no driving bits... nothing I could grab hold of. Guitar/keyboard guy had lots of keyboards but didn't do much with them (which says to me that he's spending more time with gear than with sound). Bass guy was in the background and MIA, sonically as well as physically. Guitar dude with his astronautica-schtick was off somewhere else. Drummer was punchy, tight, but knows how to take a step back too ... definitely knows what he's doing.

I don't know if I'd pay much money to see them again, but technically we didn't pay to get in this time (yes, tickets were bought, but unused - anyone want some tickets? "I got two! Two tickets! Who needs em?!"). G and I walked into the wrong part of the bar-megaplex at first, so we had been "carded" and already had wristbands when we walked into the theater lobby. I just flashed it and kept walking, expecting the ticket-taking to be further up the way. I guess they assumed by either my decisive striding or the wristband that someone else had gotten our tickets. (Note to self - next show at the Majestic, get wristbands down the street and try this trick again. Gate-crashing helps offset overpriced skunky beer expense.)

Knowing that there was a middle-band (second opening act? or is the first band the opening band for the opening band?) Midtown Underground didn't seem like it would affect the other band experiences at the time, but I can't lie to you, dear readers... they stunk it up like a fart in an elevator. An elevator that's stuck between floors, with the fire department on strike and no hope of a rescue anytime soon. For the record: I don't need to hear any more shouts-out from the 8 white boys on stage about how they're gonna get the pahhty stahhted and kick it old skool, nowhahumsayin'? When the drummer doesn't realize he's got a bridge or a solo and he doesn't notice that we noticed that he didn't notice, and the sax player spends more time flailing and posing one-handed playing a single note, and the frontman's obnoxious ego is so large though he has no actual skill... yeah, they were that aggravating.

BUT, not nearly as aggravating as all the chippies about in their bar skank uniforms. What IS it about the oh-so-original black heels, jeans, black knit top, floozy hair and optional mini-purse over the shoulder and under the armpit? They were everywhere. And each and every one with a plastic cup in one hand, the other in the air, whooping it up in a half-constipated shuffle-dance to keep ridiculous shoes, unflatteringly tight jeans, a drink, a purse, and "whooo!" all in play, somehow still just "needin' to cut loose and get my groove on cuz it's Fri-dayyy! whoooo!".

Hey you - yes you... white girl with a stench of desperation about you - let's not kid each other. You're not actually having fun. You're pretending to have fun because that's what you think you're supposed to do and all your other blackshirtbluejean friends are here. But it's so much work, and I can see the strain it's putting on you. Put down your burden. It's OK, really it is. Take a rest.

I promise I'll still pretend to think you're cool if you just give up and... be yourself.