At this show, I learned that my musical preferences roughly reflect the image that the band projects. I’m not proud of this, but I’ll explain.
The first band that went on, Grand Ole Party, looked promising. They’re a three piece band—two dudes, and a singing drummer chick. The guitar and bass players were peculiarly enthusiastic and both wore collared shirts. The guitar player, for instance, had this entirely over-enthusiastic style that made me think he would give a TGI Friday’s hiring manager wet dreams. I mean, their enthusiasm was such that they are either highly successful Chili’s waiters or your average Mormon after winning the local ward’s annual family cup stacking competition, the Bishop’s Cup.
Because I complain so frequently, I believe it is important to try and find something nice about the act. So in fairness to the band, the singer had some pretty nice boobs that really got to bouncing around when she was rocking out. This, however, was not enough to dispel the odor of extreme quesadillas or my conviction that they were only able to play because they timely asked the Chili’s manager for a Saturday night off.
The singer of the next band seems like kindergarten teacher in the way that might seem alright to kindergartners, but probably evokes eye-rolling in parents. During this set, and because I have an attention span rivaling that of her imaginary students, I pretended to be a father at her parent-teacher conference. I’m a hurried, mid-level executive with a surgically implanted bluetooth headset. As she’s talking to us about finger-painting, I suggest under my breath that the group should “get a real job” because I had to. Even Bee was bored. I asked her if she felt any sort of connect with the band because she kind goes by Bee in the blog world and the band name contained the word Bee. No response.
Next was the headliner. The guys are dressed in business attire. One had on suspenders, the other a tie. The dude with the tie had long, messy hair, but in a well-manicured sort of way that suggests he would not recognize the words “coupon” or “Supercuts.” The singer chick, while hot, looked like the band found her at the pharmacy counter arguing with a tech about getting shorted on percocets. I knew as soon as they walked out that we couldn’t be friends—the guys for exploiting crazy women and the singer for being, well, crazy.
The band plays So Cal-esque, focus-grouped, early twenties-themed, teen anthems (This song is about breaking up in a foreign country! This song is about breaking up when you’re wearing a blue tie and it is slightly humid outside!”). We all know it only exists in its present form because some marketing executive insisted these songs be sung by a group of former childhood stars. But they’re not fooling anyone; we all know that nothing sincere or genuine can originate from southern California because no real people live there.
Ultimately, despite my complaining, I really did enjoy myself. It’s been a while since I’d been to a concert and thought about what makes a good one. I have refined my idea of what is means to be “rock.” Besides, Bee was really moved by the whole thing. I like to think I can take joy in the happiness of others, particularly when the booze is flowing freely.
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