Big ups to all the good folks who crowded the stage at O'Brien's this past Saturday. Some highlights:
- When we loaded into the club around 8, we noticed a strong, but unidentifiable odor wafting in the air. After much discussion, we determined that it was either a spilled keg of beer from July or a gallon of rancid skunk semen.
- I must have worn my "lunatic-attracting" cologne by mistake that night, because every freak, alcoholic methhead and outpatient was prowling the streets of Allston, targeting your buddy Brendo. As I tried to walk over to the ATM before the show, a weird drunk dude started shadow boxing with me. Inside the club, a huge (from what I could tell) deaf mute in a red satin jacket decided that his best way of communicating with me was to slam his shoulder into my chest a few times. As I was loading out after the show, a stumbling inebriated asshole on the sidewalk took periodic breaks from falling into the grimy snowbank to yell "Faggot!" at me. Good times. Got to love Allston.
- My baby brother Colum (okay, he's not really a baby anymore, but he does drool a lot) and his girlfriend Katie showed up for their very first Scamper show. While I was happy to see them, I was a little worried. They say that smell is the strongest sense tied to memory. I didn't want my little brother's first impression of my band to be "They sounded okay, but they smelled a little like... I can't place the smell." To which Katie would say,"A gallon of rancid skunk semen?" Colum: "That's it. A gallon of rancid skunk semen. My brother's band smells like a gallon of rancid skunk semen." (The words "a gallon of rancid skunk semen" just get funnier and funnier the more I type them.)
- Bad odors aside, the actual show was a lot of fun. We had a tough time hearing ourselves and each other on stage, so we adjusted the way any other well-oiled professional music outfit would: more jumping. In Scamper, the solution to any problem usually ends up being "more jumping." Actually, it was sort of liberating to have such a bad sound on stage - we just sort of said "fuck it" and had a blast playing. It's true what they say - a bad day playing music is better than a good day doing just about anything else.
- Crazy people attacking me aside, we liked playing in the Allston-Brighton area so much that we're heading back on February 10. This time, we're playing at Great Scott - a club which, I'm told, does not smell like a gallon of rancid skunk semen.
- When we loaded into the club around 8, we noticed a strong, but unidentifiable odor wafting in the air. After much discussion, we determined that it was either a spilled keg of beer from July or a gallon of rancid skunk semen.
- I must have worn my "lunatic-attracting" cologne by mistake that night, because every freak, alcoholic methhead and outpatient was prowling the streets of Allston, targeting your buddy Brendo. As I tried to walk over to the ATM before the show, a weird drunk dude started shadow boxing with me. Inside the club, a huge (from what I could tell) deaf mute in a red satin jacket decided that his best way of communicating with me was to slam his shoulder into my chest a few times. As I was loading out after the show, a stumbling inebriated asshole on the sidewalk took periodic breaks from falling into the grimy snowbank to yell "Faggot!" at me. Good times. Got to love Allston.
- My baby brother Colum (okay, he's not really a baby anymore, but he does drool a lot) and his girlfriend Katie showed up for their very first Scamper show. While I was happy to see them, I was a little worried. They say that smell is the strongest sense tied to memory. I didn't want my little brother's first impression of my band to be "They sounded okay, but they smelled a little like... I can't place the smell." To which Katie would say,"A gallon of rancid skunk semen?" Colum: "That's it. A gallon of rancid skunk semen. My brother's band smells like a gallon of rancid skunk semen." (The words "a gallon of rancid skunk semen" just get funnier and funnier the more I type them.)
- Bad odors aside, the actual show was a lot of fun. We had a tough time hearing ourselves and each other on stage, so we adjusted the way any other well-oiled professional music outfit would: more jumping. In Scamper, the solution to any problem usually ends up being "more jumping." Actually, it was sort of liberating to have such a bad sound on stage - we just sort of said "fuck it" and had a blast playing. It's true what they say - a bad day playing music is better than a good day doing just about anything else.
- Crazy people attacking me aside, we liked playing in the Allston-Brighton area so much that we're heading back on February 10. This time, we're playing at Great Scott - a club which, I'm told, does not smell like a gallon of rancid skunk semen.
3 Comments:
Thanks for the review. Kinda makes me feel not as bad for not coming. There's nothing worse than smelling a gallon of rancid skunk semen.
And don't kid yourself. All bars in Allston stink. Looks like I won't be coming to that one either.
you were missed though alena! i hope keith said hi to you for me.
brendan..were you even really there sat/sun..cause you left out EVERYTHING..must've been distracted by the "gallon of rancid skunk semen" cologne you bought after enjoying the show so much..
I just gave a few highlights. If you'd like to fill in the blanks, the world awaits.
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