Ten Nights, Seven Bands, And One Aching Testicle, by Paul Shirley

Ten Nights, Seven Bands, And One Aching Testicle, by Paul Shirley

In his book The Polysyllabic Spree, which is a collection/extension of literary reviews he did for a magazine called The Believer, Nick Hornby mentions a desire to keep his reviews mostly positive.  Far be it for him, he seems to say, to denigrate the artistic works of others.

When I started writing about music for ESPN, I burgled Hornby’s philosophy.  My thinking: There’s too much good music available and so, not much reason to dwell on the bad.

Aside from questioning the Beatles’ choke-hold on music fans’ affections, I’ve done a pretty good job in upholding this standard.  But, at the end of a ten-night, seven-concert gauntlet, my noble intentions were tested, thanks to a musician in the last band on my schedule.

In mid-March, I noticed that the April concert lineup in Northeast Kansas looked particularly fertile.  After some research, I figured out that bands were criss-crossing the country while going to and from the big spring festivals: South By Southwest in Austin, TX, and Coachella, in Indio, CA.  Their need to get across the country in rental vans and tour buses was a blessing for those of us who live in the middle of that country.

I noted the following:

April 5 – Passion Pit in one venue, Fanfarlo in another

April 6 – Beach House

April 7 – Camera Obscura

April 8 – Miike Snow

April 9 – Bad Veins

April 10 – The Big Pink/A Place To Bury Strangers OR Julian Casablancas

April 11 – Deer Tick

April 12 – Band Of Skulls

April 13 – Japandroids

And, finally, a band I’ve long enjoyed in recorded form, but one I’ve never seen live:

April 14 – Rogue Wave

In August of 2009, I mentioned Rogue Wave in an ESPN column, writing “These fine gentlemen from Oakland play the sort of music that seems easy to make, until one realizes how rarely it’s made so well.”

Soon after, I received an email from the band’s bassist:

Thanks for the shout out man!

I wrote back that I appreciated the note and their music and told him to let me know when their next album came out.

Cool Paul.  Will do.

When, in March, I noticed that Rogue Wave would be near my hometown, I had a column idea.  I had given Rogue Wave’s new album, Permalight, a thorough going-over and had decided that I really liked it.  I sent the band’s bassist an email, knowing that anything I wrote about the Rogue Wave and their new album would be easy to keep positive – there was almost no chance I wouldn’t like their live show, and I already liked all of their recorded work.  Nick Hornby would be proud, I thought.

My note:

Hi [Rogue Wave’s bassist’s name].

Back in late August, you wrote me a much-appreciated note.

Your band will be in Lawrence, KS next Wednesday; I wonder if you

might have 20 minutes that day for a quick conversation/interview.

Thanks.

Paul

While awaiting his response, I got started on my own personal reverse concert tour, the ten days of which happened to dovetail perfectly with a ten-day round of antibiotics intended to remedy the dull ache that had plagued my right testicle for the previous two months.

(It wasn’t cancer.  Nor was it an STD.  It was epididymitis, or an inflammation of the epididymis, or something I really didn’t want to tell the girlfriend about, but did.  And if I could tell her, I figured I could tell you.)

My testicles are hardly worth mentioning here except for one complicator: Because I was really tired of feeling like I’d just taken a Whiffle-ball bat to the privates, I had resolved to be extremely careful about my nutritional habits while my round of Cipro did its bacteria-killing best.  Onto the wagon I went; I would be church-mouse sober for every concert I attended.

Because Passion Pit was an early show that coincided with the NCAA Championship and because I’d made a point to watch Butler beat Kansas State at the excellent Blue Seats in New York City, I felt invested in Gordon Hayward’s fate, and decided to forego the sweet-singing Northeasteners (Passion Pit) in favor of Fanfarlo’s late show at Kansas City’s Record Bar.

Fanfarlo was duller than a Gillette Sensor Excel after nine months in Zack Galafanakis’ bathroom drawer.*

Thankfully, there was a comedic moment to serve as the night’s highlight.  After the Record Bar’s manager walked to the extra room that was doubling as backstage and, in full view of the audience, asked the band if they’d be coming out for an encore, we were treated to the answer: his sprint to the sound booth to turn on the house music.  Because, when you’re an obscure band from Europe given one chance to impress the locals, you should probably do your best to piss them off by not playing an encore.

My second night on “tour” was spent with Beach House.  It would be a night marred by my unfamiliarity with the band.  And by my sobriety.  Beach House plays a mellow style of rock music that is best experienced with something else to do, which made me think of Pinback.  (And made most of the people who just read that comparison think, What an awful comparison.  He just likened one obscure band to another, even more obscure band.) Beach House was vaguely dull, but I swore at the time to give them a pass until I’ve heard more of their music.  So I will.

Next up was Miike Snow, the Swedish/Brooklynish band I’ve been lauding since I saw them at Lollapalooza.  I was back at the Record Bar, which was inexplicably packed with Miike Snow fans, many of whom were young and very attractive.  As my friend John noted, it was easily the best-looking small-venue concert crowd Kansas City has seen since Guster was last in town.  I agreed with him, even in my sobriety.  Imagine what I might have said if I’d had four Olympias.  (My cheap beer of choice at the Record Bar.)

Neither John nor I could explain how so many people in Northeast Kansas knew about Miike Snow, so we asked around.  Unbeknownst to us, the band has had a vaguely mainstream hit, which explained the four college girls in the booth against the wall and their faithful rendition of “Animal”.  Only later did I learn that “having a hit” meant their song was played on Gossip Girl, which I can only assume to be the sort of show watched by the girls on the wall.

As expected, Miike Snow was fantastic.  Someday, everyone will know that it’s a band and not a person.

After the arrival of the aforementioned girlfriend (which arrival would later rule out Deer Tick and Band Of Skulls) it was time for old friends Bad Veins, who were saddled with not one, but two Paul-related obstacles to overcome.  Okay, three.  Testicle, sobriety, and a badly burned right thumb, the result of a grilling mishap that consisted of me telling myself, as I did the exact opposite, “Okay, don’t let any of your fingers slip out from behind this hot pad holder as you take the vegetable tray off the grill.”

Despite pain on three fronts (thumb + epididymis + the pain that comes from sobriety at a rock show), Bad Veins performed just as admirably as when I first saw them, back in September.  Only this time, instead of 9 people in the audience (seriously), there were 150.  Granted, Bad Veins was opening for the epically mediocre band As Tall As Lions**, but I tend to think that most of the crowd was as wowed as I was by Bad Veins’ set.

My girlfriend and I were both feverishly anticipating the next night’s show, a rarity you would understand better if you knew her background.  But I’m not going to tell you that.  You’ll just have to trust me when I say that she doesn’t get too excited about live music.  And no, she’s not a graduate of the Kansas School For The Deaf.

Although, even if she were, she would have enjoyed A Place To Bury Strangers.  ‘Twas loud.  And visually stimulating.  I was impressed by the Brooklyners’ ability to put on an actual rock show, a rare characteristic these days.  Most of the bands I saw in my ten-day stay-put tour should have been forced to apprentice under APTBS.  As it turns out, we in the audience probably don’t need to see more of the bands we love.  Most musicians are short, scruffy, and honestly, probably not all that attractive.  (With the exception of Bad Veins.  Good-looking dudes, all around.)

Unless you’re Lykke Li, Alison Mosshart, or the lead singer of Queens of the Stone Age, hiding behind smoke and some back-lighting is a very, very good idea.

Three songs into a set by the night’s headliner, The Big Pink, I sent a twitter message that read, “There’s no reason this band couldn’t be the biggest band in the world.”

I was given just such a reason at song number six, which capped off a three-song suite of slow jams that sucked the energy out of the room more effectively than a battalion of cops checking IDs.

After two nights off so my ears could recover, and so my girlfriend and I could build a super-couch with all the furniture in my basement for the purpose of a better vantage point for episodes of House, I bade her farewell and drowned my sorrows in music.  (I had no choice.  Still not drinking.)  This time, with the Japandroids, a two-piece punk/noise rock band from Vancouver.

The Japandroids were great, walking the line between accessible music and noise perfectly.  Their set was marred by their opener, the horrendous Avi Buffalo (hey, they’re young, and they can play instruments…let’s put them on tour)*** and the overwhelming number of Y chromosomes in the audience.  It’s true that my girlfriend had just left and I was firmly in the “wistfully missing her” stage, but that didn’t mean I wanted to be surrounded by males.  At last tally, the count was 57 to 9.

Then again, nine is plenty if your band is the Japandroids and only has two members.

And then it was time for the finale, a band I’ve rooted for since their debut, Out Of The Shadow, came out in 2004.

Rogue Wave makes music seem simple.  When I listen to their albums, I usually think, Why don’t more people do this? More people – or bands – don’t do what Rogue Wave does because what Rogue Wave does is difficult.  It’s hard to make music sound easy.  Their secret lies, I think, with all the little things – a hooky keyboard part at just the right moment, or the extra lilt that lead singer Zach Schwartz (aka Zach Rogue) throws into a melody.

In addition, the band has done its share of overcoming obstacles.  Drummer Pat Spurgeon is on the wait list for a new kidney, and Schwartz himself overcame a 2008 illness that left him partially paralyzed.

There are plenty of reasons to like Rogue Wave.  Or, there were plenty of reasons to like Rogue Wave, until I read the response to my interview request:

Hey man,

Thanks for the thought. Unfortunately, your stance on Haiti’s relief efforts is something a bleeding heart bay area [band] like us would have a difficulty being associated with…[]…Good luck.

[Rogue Wave’s bassist]

As I read the note, my shoulders slumped, and my respect for Rogue Wave immediately plummeted.

I considered not going to the band’s show, but thought better of it.

I went alone, staying through the last song of their pre-encore set, sipping on a concoction of orange juice and club soda, at war with my own brain.  Would I write about this?  Could I stay objective?  Should I lambast them out of spite?

As a writer, I’ve had published something like 300,000 words.  If a man who would normally speak to me refuses to do so because of a 2,000 word essay I wrote questioning the US relief effort in Haiti, claiming that to be associated with me would be difficult for his band, I become disappointed in that man. To refuse a conversation with me because of an article I wrote is as childish as bed-wetting and Boys-Only tree forts.

What’s next?

I’m sorry, Paul.  You once wrote a column about Guns ‘n Roses.  I don’t like Guns ‘n Roses, so I’m not going to talk to you.

When I walked out of Lawrence’s Bottleneck after the Rogue Wave show, a sense of relief washed over me.  I’d survived my ten-day gauntlet of Cipro, live music, and sobriety.  But with my contentment came a nagging disappointment:  One of the musicians I had held in such high esteem for so long had drawn back the curtain and proved himself to be just as petty and short-sighted as the Tea Party activists he likely despises.

I wondered if I could separate my feelings.  I resolved to give it a try:

As live performers, the members of Rogue Wave interpret their songs even better than they do in recorded form.  Which, really, is all anyone can ask out of a band.  Their live show was fantastic.

But Rogue Wave could take a lesson from A Place To Bury Strangers.  Stay in the shadows.  Keep me guessing.

I liked you more when you did.

*Fanfarlo, you can thank Rogue Wave’s bassist for the uncharacteristic negativity.

**You too, As Tall As Lions.

***As for you, Avi Buffalo – you probably would have caught my rage even at my most Zen.  You should find something else to do with your time.

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