As if anyone need more proof that I veer towards the geeky, I present photographic evidence. Yes, that’s me flashing the gang signs. I had a great time, I’ll definitely be heading to the next meet up and some plans are brewing that may require my crafty expertise (or at least some of my equipment). What the pictures don’t show is that Caitlin, Wendy and I were the only ones there for over an hour, which gave us plenty of time to get sauced before the others showed up and giggle over things only we would find amusing. For example, you can buy 403 and 200 thongs, but where I ask you are the 500 boxer shorts? I think I actually won our geek-off because I knew what they were talking about without ever having needed that knowledge. Hmmm.
Eventually I ducked out (sooner than I’d have liked) because I had a ticket for the sold out Fucking Champs/Comets On Fire/Oneida/Black Mountain show. I was already running late, and by the time I got there it was a half-hour wait for will call, so I missed all of the Black Mountain set and most of Oneida. Still, I was able to grab my favorite spot upstairs by the bar overlooking the stage for the two final sets.
I was glad that I’d watched the end of Woodstock that afternoon before the meet up, because it was the perfect moodsetter for the hard rock psychedelic freakout that calls itself Comets On Fire. I’d call them a jam band, except jam bands aren’t nearly as aggressive or capable of keeping their songs under 5 minutes. They played a short set but had a good time flailing and writhing around on stage making as much noise as humanly possible. Rock and roll.
Last up was The Fucking Champs. This was the band my new acquaintance Brad-from-Cape-Cod (who graciously watched my chair for me while I bought another beer) was looking forward to. In contrast to Comets On Fire the Champs are insanely tight, and about as exciting to watch perform as Rush without the light show. For those of you who don’t remember the 80’s, that means dorky white boys standing perfectly still playing their instruments with extreme technical precision. Despite the fact that they were headlining, a good chunk of the crowd drifted away during their set and they weren’t called back for an encore. I guess people expect a band to put more effort into entertaining the crowd when they’re on stage, even if it means sacrificing the sound a bit. Sorry folks, the Champs just aren’t that kind of band. However I do have two little words of advice for their guitar player: strap length. I’m sure it’s easier and more comfortabe to play that crazy 9-string when its sitting up near your belly button but it makes you look like a Poindexter, especially with those high-waisted pants. It’s not your best look. Look at Paul Simenon on the right there. Couldn’t play for shit, had to have Joe Strummer put color-coded dots where his fingers should be. But the strap length says “Rock God”, does it not? Think about it. Chicks dig the long strap.