Naked mole-rats live entirely underground in elaborately structured and hierarchical communities. A naked mole-rat adjusts its temperature by huddling in a group. They have the lowest metabolic rate of any known mammal. The smallest members dig the tunnels and gather nesting materials and food, while the larger members provide defense. Activity continues day and night. Naked mole-rats communicate vocally with only 20 different sounds. Sound familiar?
To complete the coincidence, naked mole-rats are the only known mammal to be completely eusocial, living in a way that, like ant colonies or beehives, is geared toward communal benefit as opposed to individual survival.
Which is by no means my way of complimenting Seattle bands on their selflessness. But a vital club scene benefits all, and when the more popular bands take notable newcomers under their wings, it's an act to ensure the survival of live music. Under-appreciated bands like Welcome benefit from opening for bands like Red Stars Theory, whose recent performance at the Breakroom only reinforced their local preeminence. Red Stars Theory lay down seemingly innocuous tunes, and embroider them with their guitars until the songs are as full, round, and ripe as late-June fruit. For a band who play with their backs to the audience (TURN AROUND, FOR CHRISSAKES!), they still give you a lot to look at. As long as the drum kit faces the audience, the elegant and languid Jeremiah Green is where your eyes will rest. He hits so hard, and yet with the most puzzling fluidity; his visible motions and the audible beats are not quite in sync, as if you've stepped into a poorly dubbed kung fu movie. The sensei is giving you his secrets and your brain won't follow; the sounds don't match the moves; they're blurred, too fast -- the effect is disorienting, but you can't bear to tear your gaze away.
Green is perhaps the most appropriate contrast for the other drummer-about-town these days, the Now's Jon Bolton. With his drum kit set up flush with the mics of his two equally talented bandmates, Bolton is a showoff. But what he has to show off is a delight to behold: a presence that can only be compared to Animal from The Muppet Show. Like a puppet, his agility seems to obliterate the truth of his skeleton, and he moves in Gumby-esque (Gumbian?) euphoria. Beyond the band's showmanship, though, lie songs like "Gumdrop Girl" and "Misty," both of which have the immediate appeal of all smash hit singles. If only the band would release something.... The Now brought the Crocodile crowd to its knees this month when they covered a commercial for a compilation of '80s hair-metal power ballads. Complete with the 800 number on a placard behind them, they played the ad verbatim, from the opening voice-over, "They taught us how to love!" through the various snippets of tracks from Warrant, Poison, and their ilk.
Poison covers abound in our underground community, as proven by most of Death Cab for Cutie (elusive new drummer TK still lives in Portland), who gave a garbled but heartfelt rendition of "Every Rose Has Its Thorn" at the all-covers night called Y2Kaos. The sold-out show was such a success that it'll be resurrected the first Friday of every third month from now on at the Croc, blessedly relieved of the millennium connection and reborn as the "Croc Pot."
The Croc has also begun showcasing unknown bands on Tuesday nights, the first of which was an unqualified bummer, with unimpressive sets from Skookumchuck and Stumblebum. Points for the names, folks, and Skookumchuck boasted some promise, but weak tunes. The vocals were imitation Olympia, which really should no longer be attempted without bringing something new to singing flat. The comedy portion of the evening came from Stumblebum, a post-frat outfit from Everett who were merch-heavy and talent-light. There aren't enough logo matchbooks or coasters in the world to hide the fact that Stumblebum is nearly a Sugar Ray cover band. And the lead singer did the most loathsome thing a musician can do: He took off his shirt.
Nakedness onstage is a spectacle to which I'm almost entirely opposed. It was inflicted on me by Stumblebum and also by the Spores, who otherwise seemed like a band I could really get into: shades of Talking Heads and Sonic Youth. But the shirtlessness of one of their many members as he flagellated himself with a tambourine was more than I could take. Let's keep bare torsos to a minimum, shall we? It's all right for naked mole-rats, though: They're hairless.
