The Not Protest the Hero Show
For the past couple days, I feel a bit like I’ve been in an episode of World’s Scariest Police Chases. Except instead of “scariest” imagine “most painful” and instead of “police chases” think “sore throats.” If there was a show called World’s Most Painful Sore Throats, my episode would only be available on one of those “Banned from TV” DVD collections — it’s that fucking gnarly. I would have loved to just hang out at home tonight and get some reading in or watch some movies, but Joel wanted to go to a show. In fact he loves the headliner, Silverstein, so much that he bought me a ticket just to go see them with him. My other new skate rat friend, Joe, came along as well. I’m always down for a live show, but I was even more excited when I discovered that Protest the Hero was touring with them. I’m not totally NUTS about Protest the Hero, but they’re definitely technical and fun to listen to. Unfortunately, I got the news a little late.
(4:49:24 PM) Linsey: protest the hero is not going to be there
(4:49:33 PM) Bill: what???
(4:49:53 PM) Linsey: yeah my roommate is friends with Rody
(4:50:23 PM) Bill: why the hell is pth not gonna be there
(4:50:41 PM) Linsey: something with their roadies, and techs
(4:50:45 PM) Bill: jesus christ
(4:50:55 PM) Bill: i dont want to listen to fucking devil wears prada
(4:51:12 PM) Linsey: haha we didnt either, thats why we called and said to just take us off the list
(4:51:30 PM) Bill: mother shit fuck
(4:52:25 PM) Bill: im soooo fucking sick of christian hardcore
(4:52:41 PM) Linsey: lol
Yeah, Protest canceled. This left some local band, A Day to Remember, The Devil Wears Prada and Silverstein. I checked A Day to Remember’s Myspace and discovered they sound exactly like 3,000 other bands. Honestly, I wasn’t impressed with what I heard on Silverstein’s Myspace, either. Eep.
Expecting traffic and encountering none, the three of us got to the east side of town early and stopped by a McMenamins for drinks. Skateboarder logic dictated that the best solution for my sore throat was whiskey shots. Not my idea, mind you; I haven’t had whiskey since my last breakup and I’m pretty sure I’m still recovering from that night — I think I’d survive just fine if I never had whiskey ever again. Fortunately there was plenty of Pabst available to wash it all down. Having killed the 30 minutes we had expected to spend in traffic, we headed to the venue.
Just a couple hours before, Joel had introduced me to a little game called “teams.” Basically you find the shittiest things and people in your immediate area and schlep them off onto your friends’ “team” before they call them for your team. The point is to have the team with the least shitty members. Let me explain: As we approached the line, comprised mostly of 17 year old kids in identical studded belts, tight pants and shaggy black emo haircuts, Joel declared that “everybody at this show” was on my team. Harsh. For my first time playing teams, this was a devastating blow; you’d think he’d go a little easy on me. Of course, things always get better inside the venue once you get to the 21-and-older area. Overpriced Pabst tallboys in hand, we got ready to see some live music.
A Day to Remember was definitely generic and formulaic. You’ve heard the band a million times under a million different names. Move along. The Devil Wears Prada goes far above and beyond “generic,” far beyond “formulaic,” and beyond even “predictable.” Since they don’t have a hit, you can’t dignify them by calling them one hit wonders. Think one trick pony. I’m not fucking kidding you, every song sounded nearly identical; they could have easily all been parts to the same song. Oh, really? You guys are chugging that dropped D again? Seriously? Again? Cutting to the copout “breakdown” where the drummer is smashing his china cymbal in halftime and both guitars and the bass are pounding out a rhythm on D is excusable maybe ONCE an album. The Devil Wears Prada discovered that the drop D chug gets a crowd really fired up and decided to write their songs AROUND it, apparently. I’d say 75% of each song was an open goddamn D in varying rhythms. Oh, and then, over the top of this, picture the worst 17-year-old margin-of-the-English-notebook poetry with just a dash of Christian imagery and you have TDWP lyrics. They’re fucking horrible.
You’ve compromised your doctrines
You’ve surrendered yourself to fashion.
Come back to your faith; Come back to grace.
He sang with us and loved others.
The death of obsession.
The blood relationship, creates such a rotten demise.
Oh Lord.
Such blackness portrays the love of a machine.
I did not want you to join this culture.
So how can you be so proud?
Pray to the heavens, with whatever it takes.
I wish to shine this light back upon you.
It’s obvious that apocalyptic barriers (will give) no mercy to fashion.
You’ve compromised your doctrines.
You’ve surrendered yourself now
Gimme a fucking break. I’m sorry, but just because you’re covered in tattoos and your guitar is tuned down a full step — Christianity is not fucking hardcore. Is this what this whole scene has come to? Because he’s barking in his best grindcore voice, do people not hear the stupid shit coming out of his mouth? Oh, I nearly shot beer out of my nose when, after their second song, the singer, who had just been SCREAMING HIS LUNGS OUT, squeaked “Goodness! It’s frickin hot in here!” RAOMFOAMRALFMAOFMLFAORMA!!!11! Soooo fucking hardcore. It was funny that Joel had joked about one of their guitar players — who looked much older than the rest of the band and very out of place — “Hahaha that guitar player looks straight out of Agnostic Front!” What, a real hardcore band? With members that are old enough that their parents let them use naughty language? Ugh, don’t tease.
It was during the second half of Prada’s set that we decided we couldn’t take any more and headed to the bar on the BOTTOM floor. Yeah, alcohol is served in multiple locations in this venue. This was probably the raddest part of the night, because there was a air hockey tournament taking place with fucking LIVE COMMENTARY. Icing on the cake: on the other side of the bar was a projection screen where they were playing Patrick Swayze’s barroom masterpiece Roadhouse. So rad.
Silverstein was a breath of fresh air after the listening to an open D for 45 minutes, but I can’t say I’m a fan. You could at least tell a difference between the songs, and there was definitely more interesting instrumentation going on and the whole deal was much more melodic, but my panties remained pretty arid. Protest the Hero owes me a couple drinks for not showing up.
March 19th, 2008 at 8:11 am
what a serious WASTE of time and money. Even thought your ticket was free, those 4 dollar tall boys, and standing around listening to shit should never be considered. You should have been at the air hockey tourney the whole time.
March 19th, 2008 at 8:30 am
I’m trying to figure out what an air hockey commentary would say like. “And he returns it! And he returns it! And he returns it! And it bounces back to Smith! And he returns! And score!!!!!!!!”
Alternately I supposed it could be more of a defensive commentary. “Denied! Smith says no! Turned down again! DEEENNIIIEEED! Jones says ‘not in my house!’ DENIED! SMITH SCORES!!!!!”
Smith is awesome.
March 19th, 2008 at 11:13 am
smith IS awesome
March 19th, 2008 at 11:58 am
A legend.
March 19th, 2008 at 2:06 pm
So I just checked out The Devil Wears Prada Myspace, and I swear it’s two different bands. These guys’ sound is like 80% studio trickery. Lame.
March 19th, 2008 at 8:41 pm
Why are you not hyperlinking this shit? You mention every single band’s MySpace somewhere in this post, yet NONE of them are hyperlinked.
And you call yourself a blogger.
March 19th, 2008 at 9:37 pm
Cause it would fucking kill you to copy/paste it. Or just go to google and type it in.
I would imagine he’s not linking it because why would you link to pure horse shit?
And seriously, who says “hyperlink” these days? People who surf the “INTERNET SUPER HIGHWAY!”
March 19th, 2008 at 9:39 pm
P.S.
I warned Bill about The Devil Wears Makeup or whoever the fuck.
They’ve played here like three times and it gives the little mongrels that love jesusgodchrist an excuse to put on their extra small pullover hoodie and stay out until at least 10 ‘o clock. Horrible. Just horrible.
March 20th, 2008 at 12:22 am
Hyperlink ROAMFOARMLAFMOAFML
March 20th, 2008 at 6:05 am
Rolling on a marshmallow free of any ramifications many learn about from marshmallow oligarchies and free mallow Luddites?
March 20th, 2008 at 10:30 am
Yes, it would kill me. And hyperlink is just a cool word. Like Wavebird or Dreamcast or psychobabble. I feel like I’m on the Millennium Falcon.
April 15th, 2008 at 6:06 pm
Dude Smith is about to be inducted into the air hockey hall of fame that’s how legendary he is…Oh yeah and what’s this hyperlink mumbo jumbo you kids are talkin about on this here inter-web super info log thing…Wavebirds are extinct aren’t they.