Bad Copy

Apparently I have been getting a reputation as some sort of – for lack of a better word – hater. There’s been a handful of bands I have personally pissed off with my negative show reviews or by simply not making it to the show on time to see them. Whatever. Writing about music is dumb enough as it is. No one gives a shit about the actual show review; bands just want to steal a photo of themselves for their new Facebook profile picture or to post on Instagram with the hidden meaning of look at how fucking cool I am but putting a caption like “pretending to know what I’m doing 😉 #dork” because they don’t want to look too conceded. I go to a show. I write about the show. That’s what I do. I’m sorry I didn’t like your dumb band. But it doesn’t mean you suck; it means you suck to me. I’m not going to sugarcoat this stupid bullshit write up because I might hurt your feelings. I don’t like every band I see, and don’t fucking lie, neither do you.

Anyway, I showed up late and missed Compressions. Welcome to ‘Rock Against Kevin Fest’ I guess. I walked into Cobra Lounge as Retirement Club was about two songs into their set. I can’t give an honest opinion about the band because, for whatever reason, the sound was fucking terrible (oh hey, RAKfest needs a sound person). I couldn’t hear the vocals at all, and the guitars and bass sounded like a muddled mess. The drummer was good though! He looked like he was back there playing drums for a jazz band while in actuality blasting out hardcore beats. I couldn’t stop watching him; it was mesmerizing.

Canadian Rifle sounded much better when they played. I’ve seen them play a handful of times now. At first I didn’t really know what to think of them, but now I am all in. They really are fucking good. I’m listening to their newest album, Peaceful Death released in January of this year, as I write this and holy fuck. My 2018 End of the Year Album List could have been potentially Canadian Rifle-less and that would just be a goddamn shame. Plus Guitarist Alex Angus is a fucking maniac when he plays live.

Night Birds ended the show in style. I don’t know what it is about this band that makes people lose their fucking minds, but immediately a pit opened up and I stood there watching them dodging stage divers left and right. It’s probably not that punk of me to sidestep a stage diver. But when you do it in an area where there are minimal people standing there, I’m not going to catch your adult ass. And neither did anyone else. These two guys stage dove at least five times each, every time bouncing off the hard concrete floor like the namesake from the Night Birds song “Maimed for the Masses.” They seemed too drunk to care, getting up and running back into the pit or singing along with singer Brian Gorsegner as he gave up the microphone to the crowd. The best part was there no fucking encore. The worst part was the person who crop dusted us at the end and most definitely shit themselves.

After the show I finally managed to make it to the merch booth while someone was there to run it. I got the last copy of the Night Birds’ new album, Roll Credits. It’s the boxed set version with four double sided 7” records. It’s kind of a pain in the ass to listen too, but worth it since the 12” album cover is kind of dumb. And yes, that is how I make most of my decision. Aesthetics.