Screeching guitars over a rapid backbeat pierce 50 ears trying to hear 25 stilted conversations. A foot-long needle shoots directly through the beckoning orifices, winds around the ear canals and connects directly with the center of each half of the brain. A throbbing begins at the base of the skull as imaginary brain fluid leaks out of each ear. Each face contorts into wrinkled disgust and the faces move closer together.
"Music is my life!" screams one bearded-with-glasses 20-something into the ear of a young girl with hair framing her face, brown tank top, cut-off jean shorts and several colored tattoos spattered across each arm. Clouds of cigarette smoke linger between them and slowly rise to the tar-stained ceiling. From the other end of the bar, the shapes and cartoons on her arms aren't distinguishable, but I'm convinced they're more than just blobs of ink. "Have you ever heard the first Bad Brains album?" he continues to yell, "It's so raw, I can't get enough of it!"
The band falls into a repetitive pattern of chunky chords, fast, pounding, tribal drums and hollering vocals. A few words sneak out of the mix, "MAKE…APPOINTMENT…TIME…MIND…EXCUSE!" Fuzzed mumbling fills the spaces between the recognizable words.
"I'm so glad you like them, too! Did you go see them at State a few months ago? They were great. I was there for Propaghandi, though!" the girl hollers back.
"What!? I can't hear a fucking thing with this shit music!"
This article appears in Jul 22-28, 2009.