A Progressive State Of Mind

Last night, I was taken out on a “date” by J. The entire evening’s event schedule was restricted; information was provided on a need-to-know basis as the night went on. Things started out uneventfully: We had a lovely dinner, during which we conversed and tried not to be overly concerned about the strangeness of our waitress. (A modicum of concern was necessary. She was very odd. And she walked very strangely. Perhaps she was not – in actuality – human? It’s wise to be aware of such possibilities when out and about.)

After the meal, I was transported to a nearby bar, where I was presented with the evening’s entertainment: a Chicago-based progressive rock trio making their Madison debut.

For those of you who don’t know, J is a progressive rock journalist. It is his full-time hobby, and he is very good at it. Too good. So desired are his reviews that he receives near-daily shipments of CDs from bands and labels. (Needless to say, his CD collection numbers in the thousands.) His “hobby” takes him to festivals and concerts, and he’s often contacted by artists for a myriad of reasons. He had met this particular band at a festival earlier in the month, and they’d asked him to come out to see them when they played in Madison. The convenience of being able to cross “date night” and “see band” off of his “to-do” list at the same time was too much to resist, and so fate played her hand.

This I did not mind. I am quite fond of music, and have found myself quite intrigued with much of the music that J has introduced to my ears. What was – perhaps – the bigger surprise of the evening was that this band was second in a line-up, and that they were to be preceded (and followed) by “heavy metal” bands. This generated – in my mind – immediate sympathy, as I imagined that anyone who might have come out to see them would have noticed this and made inaccurate assumptions about the music that they play. I felt even more pain for them when I noticed the sparse population loitering about the premises of the venue. I would venture to guess that – between J and me – we comprised roughly 1/10th of the listening audience. This was even more disturbing when you factored in the fact that both bands awaiting their turns were also counted among the viewer numbers.

For some time, as J chatted with the band members of Aziola Cry (the trio that we had come to support), I watched the first heavy metal group go through some sort of elaborate on-stage ritual that spoofed actual band preparation. They seemed young, and I had the distinct impression that they were playing the roles that they imagined that a heavy metal band member should play. The lead singer wore a look of deliberate sullenness, and heavily utilized the “gaze off into the distance” method of cultivating the appearance of great emotional depth. He would – for good measure – occasionally fix the odd audience member with a scowl that was undoubtedly meant to communicate suppressed rage – the sort that could only be expressing through loud, jarring music and screaming voices.

After some time of “tuning” their instruments and moving random items about, the four band members onstage were apparently struck with a simultaneous need for alcoholic refreshment and abandoned their posts to satisfy this requirement. This was most interesting because they were already behind schedule. No doubt they believed this disregard of audience member’s time to be yet another key element of the success of a “heavy metal rock star.”

When the show finally began, and the loud chords and yelling washed over me, I felt a brief sense of nostalgia. I was – momentarily – transported back to my high school days, and the concerts that I had attended. Damn Yankees, Poison… it all came flooding back. Unfortunately, my trip down Memory Lane was cut short by the reality of the sounds emanating from the stage. They were – to put it bluntly – not very pleasant. I spent most of the show reviewing these points/questions in my head, where they alternated in the top position:

• I think that the lead singer perms his hair, and I think that he does it specifically to make it a more effective head-banging tool.
  
• I can’t believe that people still head-bang.
  
• How did head-banging ever begin? It’s not at all logical. There’s no way that it is not harmful to heads and necks.
  
• Why does the guitarist even try to head-bang? He practically has a crew cut. It looks absurd.
  
• I wonder what the singer’s voice would sound like if he were to actually sing with it. It almost sounds like it has potential.
  
• How do they make that weird, demonic voice? (This question was usually accompanied by quite a bit of neck-craning and shifting about in the seat.)
  
• It is SO dorky to wear black shorts with black socks and black sneakers. I can’t really think of a cool way to wear black shorts like that, but it’s DEFINITELY not with those socks or shoes.

Finally, the men that we had come to see were allowed their turn (literally) in the limelight. I had been introduced to them earlier, and they are – not surprisingly – very nice. They are a purely instrumental trio. I was looking forward to hearing their music, and was particularly intrigued by the fact that one of the three played a very unusual instrument – a Chapman Stick. As it turned out, I was not disappointed. They were very, very talented. Also worthy of noting:

• The drummer very much reminds me of my high-school friend Jerico, but with blond hair. I had to repeatedly tell myself that the man onstage was NOT Jerico with a wig.
  
• The drummer is also VERY talented and incredibly fun to watch.
  
• Drumming would be a very, very good arm workout.
  
• The Chapman Stick player reminded me of a cross between Paul Rudd and Christian Bale. He has much more of the Christian Bale presence, however; very hooded, shadowy, mysterious… That, coupled with the strange and difficult instrument that he plays, makes you believe that he knows things that the audience does not…
  
• The guitarist was playing with a broken finger. Seemed oddly impressive and stupid at the same time. Certainly played well, regardless of the wisdom of the action.
  
• Playing instruments under hot lights makes people very, very sweaty.
  
• Sweaty people tend to wipe sweat off of their face and forehead, and they tend to use their hands to do this.
  
• To avoid having to engage in the obligatory “nice to see you”/”nice to meet you” end-of-encounter handshake, it is most valuable to be a woman and have a purse that one can occupy both hands with. Men are definitely at a disadvantage in this situation.

To summarize: This trio is worth checking out, and “date night”/”band review night” was a great success. (Check those two boxes off the list.)

To learn more about Aziola Cry, visit the website: www.aziolacry.com