Rock Stahs

(March 02, 2002)

The girl I know only as "Katedevil," her Noise Message Board moniker, radiates the same air of detached cool in real life as in the cyberworld. On the Message Board, her sardonic wit cut me low on one occasion, but I loved it and cut right back. Ballsy chicks, so long as they're also intelligent, simply rule. I can't remember the details, but she commented on one of my Board posts. I retorted that there's an operation to get that stick removed from her ass. She recommended I look into personality adjustment surgery. This is when "fight like a girl" means rapier sharp repartee, and it is good. Basically, she cracked me up. In person Katedevil turns out be tall (enviably so), with severe black bangs, chunky black shoes and librarian glasses. The occasional slight upturn of her lip as she delivers her opinion, observation, or insult could either be a sneer or a smile.

The Lizard Lounge fills up fast near the end of Aaron and Paula's (really good) mostly acoustic set. "I've never seen Aaron play a banjo," I tell Benjy. "Yeah, in Betty Goo," he says. "Nah, I think I'd remember that." I don't add that I saw Betty Goo ninety-eight million times. Aaron played a red Sears Epiphone, and sometimes a brown guitar with Dukes of Hazzard and Facts of Life stickers on it. Maybe a Fender knockoff? Hm, can't remember.

Baldino and Katedevil wangle couple of chairs by the time Ad takes the stage. Baldino is outdoing himself with his Scenester Boy act, which he's perfected in the twelve months he's been part of said "scene." It mostly involves flipping his long black hair, grinning goofily and saying "I'm a nice guy" between telling you why HIS three favorite bands are the best ones in town. Katedevil, in conversation with the bespectacled, gleeful young writer/booker/guitar player, gestures me closer for an aside. "When they're 23," she drawls, "they have no idea how lucky they are." We both look over at Baldino. He'd tossed aside his leather jacket and is hiking his T-shirt sleeves. Flexing his biceps for us. Demanding we feel his bulging muscular manli-ness. Katedevil and I look at each other. I leave her to deal with him and I go focus on Ad's set.

Ad is amazing. He doesn't play guitar in this band, just sings. Ha, "just." He astonishes, is more accurate. Kicking and writhing, singing his heart out, he leads the band, the Fast Easy Women, through a loud, tight, rocking set of unusual torch songs and scintillating rants. It rocks. You can't help moving your body in the presence of such stellar rockitude. The Fast Easy Women is really Quick Fix plus Wendy, a keyboard player who always wears unusual tights.

Yes, that Quick Fix.

Now, here's the hard part about being an amateur rock critic in a small scene. You actually run into the amateur rock musicians you critique, on a fairly regular basis. I've managed, thus far, to handle this delicate situation with what I'm calling aplomb. Sometimes that means I stride up to the artist-I-panned, introduce myself, and state that I hope they gleaned from my review that I would like to see what they do next. Sometimes it just means I run to the other side of room when I see them. But usually, I have the courage of my convictions. When I review a band I'm not an asshole about it like some of the other writers. Or, as Luke put it a few days ago,"you don't give out many Get Off The Stage cards." It's true, I don't. I take it seriously when I have to say "I don't like it."

Quick Fix has gotten a million times better in the last year. When I got the new CD, I was shocked and amazed at what they've done with the place. Listening to the old stuff ("Sacrilege Sistah" or, god help us, "Fat City") and comparing it with the newer stuff ("RockStaKillah" or "Meat") it's clear what happened: the boys got themselves some song up in here. I sent the band an email saying something to that effect, which I thought was only fair since I'd written so negatively about their lack of material in the past. They didn't answer the email, ostensibly because they could give a rat's ass what I think. Fair enough. But I don't know, because I have never found myself face to face with Jake Zavracky. I admit I was doing the Run To The Other Side of the Room thing on this one.

So, the Lizard. Ad and the Fast Easy Women are done, and it's the between-band mingle time, amid the joining and leaving and re-joining of conversations, the weaving to go to the bar, the jostling to get to the bathroom. I find I'm suddenly face to face with Jake Zavracky. "Say something. Say something," urges the part of my brain that usually Runs to the Other Side of the Room.

That part of my brain gets ignored a lot. As is the case this night. I just stand there like a dumpy mongoloid troll.

"Thanks for dancing," Jake finally says. Grins. "It was great." Moves on, looks back. Grins again.

I'm pretty sure I just stared at him and looked lobotomized. Thanks for dancing? He could only mean the "dancing" I was doing during their set. Which...how come...why...what was I doing, exactly...? And good god, there was a guy with a video camera. Wasn't there. There was.

Anybody know if Jake's inherently evil or not? Because this could be bad.

(By the way, Baldino is rather a little cutie, despite the goofiness)