I spent last Saturday in Baton Rouge at the rock concert “X-Fest.” Don’t ask. I was just there.
But at least the experience gives me a chance to flex the little biceps on my typing fingers (both of them) and experiment at being a rock critic. I’ve always imagined that it would be fun and easy to be a rock critic. You just sit back and find things to be negative about. Sorta like a professor grading an exam.
But things started out inauspiciously for me. Real rock critics get complimentary tickets as a subtle bribe to write a good or at least non-negative review. I had to pay for my tickets, together with a 25 percent Internet handling fee. And not only did I pay for that, but, during the nine-hour, seven-band extravaganza, I also paid $5 for a cheeseburger, $6 for nachos and $3 each for five diet colas and two bottled spring waters. Now, I don’t know if real rock critics pay for burgers and colas and nacho chips and bottled spring water, but they must get cheese for free. Ever seen the cheesy smile of a rock critic writing a review? Sorta like a professor grading an exam.
I got to hear two interesting Australian bands at the concert, Howling Bells and Jet. Despite living more closely to wild kangaroo populations than any of the other bands, the Aussie groups seemed to jump around on stage less than the others- as if jumping was pass in kanga country. Both of these bands play sorts of rock that were invented in the West decades ago but, when filtered through the Aussie-Tasmanian mentality, sound as though you’ve never heard it before. Sorta like what a professor puts on exams.
The lead singer of the screamo band Saosin would frequently spasm like a dog drying itself from a recent flea dip- a really good trick when you’re sweating profusely on stage. With the best vertical jump of all lead signers at the Fest, he had a penchant for climbing on top of things- speakers, bass drums, other band members-and leaping from his perch like a highly-caffeinated archaeopteryx attempting flight. At one point, on his way down from the drum set, he actually landed on the bass player, and both lay still as if injured. Ironically, as the two disregarded their sound makings during the convalescence on the stage floor, none of the band’s mass of sound dropped out.
Arguably the most crowd-pleasing band of the Fest was Papa Roach. The lead singer, who looked like a mullet-haired version of Green Day’s lead singer (they probably use the same mascara) got cheers from the crowd even when he threw bottled spring water at them or spit formerly bottled spring water on them. Interestingly, the bottle of spring water I purchased had to be poured into a cup to dissuade me from throwing a filled bottle on stage to harm the band- or worse, make mascara run.
Technical problems marred the performance of the semi-screamo, formerly punk band AFI. Does the lead singer for AFI have nine-inch nails, or is that a totally separate band? This guy liked to kneel on the foremost speaker and vogue the famous Hamlet “Alas, poor Yorick” pose, reaching out for the audience as for Yorick’s skull. Unfortunately, despite frequent attempts, he couldn’t hold this pose for very long because he had to keep combing his left bang out of his face. A good thing it was the only bang he had because he would have never have been able to hold the microphone otherwise.
With the exception of the lead singer of Red Jumpsuit Apparatus, who appeared from my vantage – up one level and perpendicular to the stage – to be thin enough to look tall, most of these bands’ lead singers were munchkins.
The tiniest of all seemed to be the lead singer of the Killers, who twitched and skipped happily across stage in his sequined shoes.
Of course, while preparing to be a rock critic, I couldn’t possibly escape being a biologist.
In the intermittent light of the darkened arena, the waving crowd on the floor reminded me of a scanning electron micrograph of ciliated respiratory epithelial cells. Just google “ciliated + respiratory + SEM” to see what I’m talking about.
Alternatively, hock up some phlegm from your seasonal allergy, and you’ll appreciate the image just the same.
Nor could I escape being a professor. This “safe-moshing” phenomenon I observed, where mosh victims were sent to the front of the floor crowd and into the arms of security guards, gave me a great idea of how students could rid exam sessions of classmates who make tiny, repetitive and annoying sounds.
This was too easy: Maybe there’s more to being a rock critic than I’m imagining. I’ll bet that other reviews you may read seem more angry and abrasive than this. But at least I write like a gentleman, just like you remember when you were young. (Cheesy smile.)
