[Pendleton OR]: A depressing scene. They were the band before the band I
was there to see. It was sparsely populated. Lots of oldies. The band in their
60s? 70s? Everyone in black outfits, from Target. The lead singer in a ruffled
black shirt with a tall top hat. He kept saying “ ladies and gentlemen, boys
and girls!” … like it was witty. “Be careful in the pit!” (With your oxygen
tank?) And then they slurred Elton John… He made some crack that their next
song would be an Elton John cover and nobody laughed BECAUSE EVERYONE FUCKING
RESPECTS ELTON JOHN. They were cock rock. If I’m being kind, they sounded like
The Makers, a band I discovered through an online radio station 15 years ago. I
sort of identify with garage punk and started having a minor existential
crisis. BrightSilvers’ outrageous observations in the general theme of
rock-is-dead started surfacing in my head: “People still go to rock shows?”
“Guitars still exist?” And yet, here, I faced the fearsome evidence that BrightSilvers
was right. The only people listening to guitars anymore were wash-ups and
fuddy-duds, puffy-eyes and dad-bods. Maybe it was me. I’d spent my day writing
a grant proposal, sustained by hummus, mixed nuts, frozen yogurt, and beer. And
then I slept. As of 10pm, I’d only been awake (again) for a couple hours. And
then the lead singer told us the band was from Pendleton Oregon and I silently
cheered – just another shitty band! Rock lives on!
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