From the Apr 1 – Apr 7, 1999 issue

Pullout

HALF-ASSED HISTRIONICS

MURDER CITY DEVILS

by Chris Letcher

After watching Seattle's alleged "kings of the all-ages scene" rock their way into the premier drunks' venue (the Crocodile), I realized that rarely have I seen so little delivered with so much bombast and fanfare. If my ears had filters that only let music with content through I wouldn't have been hearing anything at all, only watching a bunch of naked guys in front of an audience sure that the emperors were rocking out in exquisite royal finery. I don't know what part of the Lords of the New Church these guys didn't get, but they must not have gotten any of it to use such mediocrity as a blueprint for their "electrifying" stage antics.

If this had been the RKCNDY show of the night before, I could have written off the crowd's enthusiastic response to these half-assed histrionics as the poor taste of youth. But tonight I was at a drunks' show, so I could only shake my head. Musical starvation is the only explanation for such a big, excited audience at such a soulless (if energetic) performance. After listening to song after song of '70s arena rock gone wrong, I eventually became impressed with how many ways this band can write the same song over and over and over again. As the guitars went "rinka-rinka" in unison and the swell of bad keyboard fills wafted through the air, only one thing kept me going: the thought that it would soon be over. It was almost more than I could take to think that I had paid eight bucks just to watch a bad punk rock wet dream being played out by overly mugging wannabes.

My only solace was the drunk I had already tied on (unlike Everett "straight-edge" True, I believe that alcohol and rock music go together beer in hand), and the fact that the cash I had spent to get in could not be translated into an even worse hangover the next day. And that wasn't much solace at all.

After watching Seattle's alleged "kings of the all-ages scene" rock their way into the premier drunks' venue (the Crocodile), I realized that rarely have I seen so little delivered with so much bombast and fanfare. If my ears had filters that only let music with content through I wouldn't have been hearing anything at all, only watching a bunch of naked guys in front of an audience sure that the emperors were rocking out in exquisite royal finery. I don't know what part of the Lords of the New Church these guys didn't get, but they must not have gotten any of it to use such mediocrity as a blueprint for their "electrifying" stage antics.

If this had been the RKCNDY show of the night before, I could have written off the crowd's enthusiastic response to these half-assed histrionics as the poor taste of youth. But tonight I was at a drunks' show, so I could only shake my head. Musical starvation is the only explanation for such a big, excited audience at such a soulless (if energetic) performance. After listening to song after song of '70s arena rock gone wrong, I eventually became impressed with how many ways this band can write the same song over and over and over again. As the guitars went "rinka-rinka" in unison and the swell of bad keyboard fills wafted through the air, only one thing kept me going: the thought that it would soon be over. It was almost more than I could take to think that I had paid eight bucks just to watch a bad punk rock wet dream being played out by overly mugging wannabes.

My only solace was the drunk I had already tied on (unlike Everett "straight-edge" True, I believe that alcohol and rock music go together beer in hand), and the fact that the cash I had spent to get in could not be translated into an even worse hangover the next day. And that wasn't much solace at all.