A Nice, Cold Glass Of STFU: The Stage Banter We Hate
I own a lot of music in a variety of formats, but I will never deny there is no substitution for seeing a band play live. The thought of passionate performances and/or the possibility of ugly violence is something a 180-gram LP or low bitrate MP3 simply can’t convey. Bands can be transcendent, average or off their game entirely, but even the greatest live gig can be ruined simply because some guys onstage don’t know when to shut the hell up. These are some of the things that come out some dudes’ pieholes that are passed off as “witty repartee” when all they really do is make me want to crowd surf to the front of the stage while holding a flamethrower.
“CHECK, ONE-TWO.” EFF-YOU
Okay, this obviously has nothing to do with the band members themselves, but their crew techs need to come up with some other stuff to say to make sure the damn mics work. The only people who get a pass to say this particular c-word are Jordan Blilie and Johnny Whitney of the soon-to-be-reunited post-everything outfit, the Blood Brothers. When they check their microphones, it sounds like Boeing MD-90s, seconds before leaving the runway. Everybody else is just boring.
PANDERING.
“How you doin’?” “You feelin’ good?” “What’s it like in [C-market city band are in] tonight?” It’s shitty man, and we came to your show to make ourselves forget about how meaningless our lives are. You don’t care how we are: You want to pander to us like you’re some butt-rock radio band who paid to be the first of six acts opening for Godsmack this summer. This cloying behavior is as old as your dust-farting aunts and uncles and is the equivalent of neophyte journalists who begin their band interviews with “So, how’s the tour going?” or “What does your name mean?” or some guy named Chet asking, “Will you sign my taint so I can have it filled in at the tat shop?” Show up, plug in, rock. Period
EXHORTATIONS TO GET WASTED
“Anybody out there smoke pot?” “Anybody wasted yet?” Perhaps, as chemical lubrication may be the only way to make your tired mewling sound “intense,” “sick” or “gnarly.” What do Ian MacKaye, Davey Havok and I have in common? We hate your parents. Next time, eat a tab of purple microdot the size of a bank brochure and stare at your hand for three weeks straight. It will get you off tour, into hospice care and out of our faces. Or maybe one of your fans will T-bone your broken-down van while speeding in their posh parents’ Escalade while tripping their tiny balls off. Idiots.
GIVING DIRECTIONS
Now more than ever, going to shows feels like some kind of interpretive dance workshop where the teacher gives you instruction like you’re in an oppressively fascistic version of the old kid’s game Simon Says. “Simon says ‘Putcha hands in the air!’” “Simon says, ‘fist pump!’” “Wave your phone during the breakdown! Sorry dude, you’re out. Simon says wave your phone. And Simon says for your girlfriend to tweet me a mammogram selfie.” Well, Jason says he’s had more exciting times catching a Dr. Marten in the face in a vicious mosh pit then your stupid attempt at showmanship. Go back to your day job, and don’t put the canned goods on top of the eggs, okay?
THE CIRCLE PIT CALL-OUT
Former AltPress web editor Tim Karan once tweeted, “Wondering what to get your favorite musician this Christmas? A circle pit. Seems that’s all they seem to ever want.” If I had a buck for every time I heard some pierced-and-inked doughhead demand a circle pit, I could afford a lobbyist to present legislation to Congress to make punk illegal. Maybe it’s just me, but shouldn’t your music be able to move people without needing prompted? Why doesn’t anyone say, “For the next song, I want all of you to throw your wallets at me, prior to commiting ritual mass suicide. I want to be ankle-deep in blood!” Then again, Alesana would sell even less records, so never mind…
GRATUITOUS F-BOMBS
A well-dropped “fuck” is shocking, vulgar and shows you mean business. Say it in front of the mic every moment when the band aren’t playing and it is completely, utterly stupid and pointless. My most beloved and hated bands have abused the power of cursing so it has all the resonance of an insect fart. Here’s an exercise: Let’s replace the F-word with something else—let’s use squat-thrust. “Okay you squat-thrusting maniacs! I want to see a squat-thrusting pit so large, it rips up the floor in this squat-thrusting place! You don’t want to squat-thrust with us, ’thruster! When I’m done, I’m gonna squat-thrust your beagle! Squat-thrust you!”
SHOWING SOLIDARITY OVER AND OVER AGAIN.
This entry is right up there with talking to people who really feel Nickelback deserve rock canonization the way the Beatles have. I get it: You’re making an effort to show unity, solidarity and a keen desire to build community. But you know something else? We saw the ad, read the flyer and looked at the website with the gig info. We know who is playing that night. We know you are appreciative. Stop shouting out the bands for thanks, cheap applause or for whatever reason you are trying to make up for your obvious charisma deficit. And stop having your drummer go off on a micro-tantrum solo every time you yell, “Let’s hear it for Tear-Stained Hanky!” or “Make some squat-thrusting noise for the Dogcatchers!” or perhaps “Who’s psyched for Breaking Benjamin?” On a five-band bill, that type of scene roll-call takes up a good 20 minutes, time which would be put to better use playing good music or getting your gear offstage faster so somebody else can. I will give you a pass if you are in the first two bands playing, but at that point, you should only be thanking the headliner. Because let’s face it, you’re already feeling bitchy and entitled about the other bands playing after you, whether it’s their primo set time or the amount of free drink tickets they were given when all you got was bar soda out of a gun.
MITIGATING FACTOR: Most of your favorite bands (you know, the ones you’re trying to impress) agree with the majority of this list. You tell us: What stage babbling sets you off?
