Nice Guys Finish Last

Midpoint Music Festival, Day One here

Midpoint Music Festival, Day Two here

Midpoint Music Festival - Day Three. Once upon a time, I thought it would be fun to be a music critic. How hard could it be? Go see a bunch of bands, listen to a stack of CDs, and write about why they do (or do not) rock. Cake walk, right?

After two nights of playing faux music critic, with non-stop barhopping and an entire afternoon spent listening to the stack of CDs I've either purchased or been given at the shows, I can safely attest it's not the dream job it seemed to be. All of the bands have started to run together (might be because of my affinity for Jeff Buckley/Nick Drake-tinged singer-songwriters, huh?). It took an entire pot of coffee on Saturday afternoon to get me motivated enough to edit the notes from Thursday night's shows. (Of course, that could also be chalked up to my lack of motivation about practically anything on a Saturday afternoon that doesn't involve sleeping and eating. Oh, and typing with caffeine jitters? Challenging.)

I arrived at Jefferson Hall as Remedy, the first band of the night, was starting. Unfortunately, so was the Pete Rose movie, and everyone at my end of the bar stared at the television like slack-jawed yokels as the opening credits played over footage of hit #4192 until a guy behind me nudged his friend. "C'mon dude," he remarked. "They're only gonna show this like a million more times." Point taken. Oh yeah, the band.

Remedy's "Dig It" description in CityBeat was listed as "Crowded House, a less glammy Poison, a lingering sense of déja vù." As odd as that sounds, it was pretty accurate. The singer did have a Neil Finn (albeit after a particularly long rough night) quality to his voice, and the hooks were catchy, with the strums of acoustic guitar melting into radio-friendly pop metal. They're one of those bands that, while I probably wouldn't rush out and buy one of their albums, I also wouldn't change the radio if I heard them on WEBN while driving home from work.

(Hee. Pete Rose is at the racetrack. Wonder what he's doing there? Wait, is that supposed to be Marge Schott? She's too tall and she's not smoking.)

As I headed down Main Street to Lava, I was accosted by a panhandler on a bicycle who, after I refused to give him any money, told me to "take my fat white ass home." And then he started asking me for money again. Um, dude? Let's use a little bit of logic here. If I wasn't going to give you money before you insulted me, what makes you think that I'll change my mind after you call me names?

My run-in with the panhandler made me late for the beginning of the Infinite Number of Sounds set at Lava. Guildenstern had recommended this band to me a few months ago, and they certainly didn't disappoint. Electronic noise rock band, accompanied by a video screen showing random images of buildings imploding in reverse, high-speed POV shots of highway driving, and cheesy sci-fi movies. (I swear I saw scenes from The Black Hole spliced in with the gorilla in a diving helmet from Robot Monster.) If schizophrenia had a sound, this would be it. (And I mean that in a good way, really.) The memories of the jerk on the bike and his comments towards me faded away as I watched a cheetah hunting a Thompson's gazelle in slo-mo, followed by a dramatic moment from a low-budget martial arts film.

The set concluded with a spoken-word story about stressed-out lonely cats being left alone in an apartment and peeing on everything, accompanied by drumming and high-pitched electronic droning. The video screen interspersed scenes of snow-capped mountains, tribal dancing, aforementioned cats, and Buddhist monks. Weird, not everyone's cup of tea, but strangely compelling. I was pretty much transfixed for the entire set. (And quite excited when I saw they were coming back to town in October.)

I stepped outside to get some air after the set, and ran into Jason yet again. Well, "ran into" might be an understatement. "He grabbed me by the shoulders, wide-eyed and awestruck, and announced, "I just saw the COOLEST band! There was this band called gaberdine at Crush and they sounded like Belle and Sebastian with a lower voice! and they had an electric cello! and an e-bow! and a kazoo solo! and they were just so cool!"

I grabbed his shoulders right back. "ME TOO!" I extolled the virtues of Infinite Number of Sounds to him, then ran over to Crush to pick up gaberdine's EP at Jason's insistence. (I also picked up a copy of existaria's promotional CD while I was there, and after listening to it, regretted my decision to start the evening seeing Remedy. While they were a good band, they didn't really evoke a huge response in me. I had been a little scared off by the comparison of existaria to "Tori Amos and Mad Season" but fell in love with the instrumental acoustic sonic landscapes on the CD. Obviously I'd not expected to pick a winner with every set, but this was the biggest misstep on my schedule. Well, that and not choosing to see Messerly and Ewing, and it's rumored that their MPMF appearance would be their last. Oops.)

Next up - Coltrane Motion, another of the Datawaslost bands. Originally from Cincinnati and now residing in Chicago, the buzz must have been good on this band, as there were so many people crowded around the stage that I couldn't see the band. The indiefolkhoptronic thing didn't really rock my world for the moment (but I did like their song on the sampler quite a bit), so I decided to check out Staggering Statistics next door at Crush. Apparently everyone had the same idea at the same time as I did, because I encountered my first real line of the weekend, and ended up listening to half of the band's set while standing on the stairs.

The room was packed for good reason. While Greg Dulli may have received the sultry soulfulness in the break-up of the Afghan Whigs, John Curley certainly laid claim to the rock, and Staggering Statistics put on an impressive set. Impressive enough that they ran late, and threw my schedule off yet again. I snagged the band's CD and headed back to Lava to catch the first half of Hungry Lucy's set, which had already started (damn you, Curley! damn you and your rockin' band!).

When Johnny B introduced me to Hungry Lucy years ago, they seemed to be the stereotypical goth-pop band with female vocalist. Their music seems to have ventured further into the trip-hop realm, and the stage show's sound is lush and polished.

It was then that I made the biggest mistake of the evening. I chose to leave Lava in the middle of Hungry Lucy's set to return to Crush for Blackbear. ( I'm taking some consolation that Hungry Lucy will be playing at the same show as Infinite Number of Sounds in October. I am so there.) The venue was still pretty packed, and the band seemed to be having technical issues. After a few minutes of "I can't hear the violin" and "Can you turn up everything?", the band finally started to play. Their lo-fi electronic alt-folk is OK, but again, I wasn't really feeling it. Jason had promised that they would end the set with "Your Eyes, My Choir" (also on the Datawaslost sampler), and that he would be appearing in the chorus (shades of Polyphonic Spree, but without the robes), so I stuck around, chatting with John Curley by the merchandise table while I waited.

(Editor's note: I mentally wrestled over whether I should include this next paragraph. On the one hand, this is my journal, and I should be free to say what I feel about anything. On the other hand, I don't like using my posts to bash people personally. However, the person involved really irritated me and the encounter fits in with the underlying theme of this post. So here goes.)

In the middle of the Blackbear set, Chris from The Green Room came in, and I again congratulated him on the previous evening's set. He remarked that while he never was one to sing his own praises, he thought they sounded better than they ever had. It was all I could do to not laugh in his face. (It was true that the band had vastly improved; I wasn't going to argue that. But anyone who knows Chris knows that he has four main topics of conversation: baseball, weather, Rush, and why his band is better than any other band ever conceived in the Cincinnati area.) After saying this, he then proceeded to ponder the reasons why those "indie rock poseurs" preferred "crappy bands like this" to his. I tried to diffuse his tirade with a comment about everyone having their own opinions and tastes, but he was on a roll and continued to lambaste any band I mentioned. I wanted to point out that insulting your would-be audience and your peers doesn't lead to good word-of-mouth about one's band or a big take at the door, regardless of talent. Like the panhandler earlier that night, why would I be more likely to give up my hard-earned cash after you've insulted me?

(Man, none of this would've happened if I'd split the midnight set between Hungry Lucy and Freekbass. Unfortunately, Freekbass was playing at 1120, and the distance between the two clubs and the previous night's experience with the poor sound quality of the venue had soured me on that idea. Someday I'll see Freekbass again. Someday.)

I decided it would be best if I parted company with Chris before I felt the need to smack him in the back of the head, so I wished him well and headed back up the street. I had made a promise to the guys in Mary Ellis that I would come see their set, and I have always tried to be a woman of my word - especially to people who are nice to me.

The guitarist that I had met the night before greeted me at the door of RBC. "You made it!"

"Of course I did - I said I'd be here." I complimented him on the CD they'd given me the night before. (I'd had a chance to listen to it earlier that afternoon, and I was surprisingly impressed. Think Green Day without the angst. Mary Ellis is the happiest pop-punk band ever.)

"Oh, we're even better live," he assured me.

After the negativity I'd endured just a few minutes earlier, it was refreshing to see a band that was incredibly nice and had the skills to back up their claims of a good live show. The venue was only half full and people kept milling in and out, hoping to fit as much music as possible into that last hour, but the band played as if they'd sold out Madison Square Garden, grinning happily as they asked the audience for gum in between songs. Finally the band's enthusiasm was too much for me, and I tucked my notebook into my messenger bag to go dance with wild abandon at the edge of the stage. By far, Mary Ellis had the most earnest and heartfelt set of the evening. And the most fun, by a long shot.

Tonight, if anything, was a lesson in graciousness. Nice goes a long way in my book. In the same way, negativity goes even further, and will bias my views of you and your creative projects that I might patronize in the future. A bunch of guys from Wisconsin were nice to a complete stranger (and remembered who I was the next night) and looked as if they were having the time of their lives playing in a club in Cincinnati. Another band member felt the need to insult his musical peers, his fans, and my thoughts and opinions. If both of these bands were playing in different venues on the same night, guess which one I would go see?

But the evening had drawn to a close, and the bouncers were getting that anxious "please go home now" look in their eyes, so I decided to hit the road. There would be plenty of time to ponder the politics of pleasantries in the music business later. I had a weekend's worth of sleep to catch up on, thirty-something pages of notes to edit, and a stack of CDs to listen to. Wake me when it's time for next year's festival, please?