1.18.2005
dance like an idiot
This is the essay I wrote about I Need Sleep. I got an A.
...
DL is lurching around and yelping in front of the microphone, manically striking chords with his jury-rigged three-string electric ukulele. Brian is dancing and playing the washboard, tossing his bright orange hair around to the beat. Justin is consumed in his slide guitar, and Dan is a mess of flailing arms and cymbal crashes. I’m across the stage from DL, a maraca in one hand and a bullhorn in the other. The audience is bewildered, slowly migrating from the bar towards the stage. They stand entranced, eyebrows askew, their mouths open slightly in a thoughtful, pondering expression. We haven’t won them over yet; they’re still taking everything in. They wonder, what are all these sounds? Shouldn’t there be more guitars? Their eyes sweep across the stage; there are keyboards and guitars, a saw and a trashcan, unidentifiable stringed instruments and horns. Five young men in thrift-store suits jump around the stage, and a sign proclaims “I NEED SLEEP” in glowing red letters.
There’s a flash from below. It’s Dan’s brother, Stas, the official photographer for the band. He knows the drill, he was there for all the basement shows, the street gigs, the coffee shops. The song ends, and there is apprehensive applause. The onstage action has not stopped, however, as everyone switches instruments for the second song. I run across the stage to the organ, Justin pulls out his mandolin, DL grabs a guitar, and Brian sidles up to the instrument mic with his trumpet. The next song starts, and that’s when something clicks with the audience. Their skepticism is replaced with enthusiasm. Apprehensive stares are replaced with knowing grins. Feet are tapping and heads are bobbing.
This is a good show. We’ve won over the audience. There are always the shows, though, where people don’t tap their feet. There are shows where the hard, skeptical expressions don’t fade away. There are shows where people start requesting Blink 182 songs, and there are shows where people tell us to turn it down. We spend an entire day loading and unloading equipment, and somebody gets lost, and there’s no parking. Strings break and band members get sick. There are sound guys who just can’t understand that we have more than guitars, bass, and drums. Sometimes we play an entire show, and nobody cares and we don’t get paid. After a disappointing show, we’re all tired and everybody just wants to go home.
In the end, everyone has their victories and their losses. Some venues we talk about with great pride, retelling stories of our accomplishment as if we are great conquerors of distant lands. On the other hand, there are bars that are only spoken of in hushed tones, their names like demonic incantations that mortal men dare not speak out loud. Nothing can discourage us, though. We are the band that uses toy electric pianos and plastic flute-o-phones. We are the band that brought a gong to a high-school basement show. We always get back on stage, and in that glorious slice of time when all those lights and eyes are pointed solely at us, nothing matters except to rock out and dance like an idiot.
...
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...
“Dance Like an Idiot”
An essay about the most unnecessarily complicated band in the universe
By Dave Hoffman
An essay about the most unnecessarily complicated band in the universe
By Dave Hoffman
DL is lurching around and yelping in front of the microphone, manically striking chords with his jury-rigged three-string electric ukulele. Brian is dancing and playing the washboard, tossing his bright orange hair around to the beat. Justin is consumed in his slide guitar, and Dan is a mess of flailing arms and cymbal crashes. I’m across the stage from DL, a maraca in one hand and a bullhorn in the other. The audience is bewildered, slowly migrating from the bar towards the stage. They stand entranced, eyebrows askew, their mouths open slightly in a thoughtful, pondering expression. We haven’t won them over yet; they’re still taking everything in. They wonder, what are all these sounds? Shouldn’t there be more guitars? Their eyes sweep across the stage; there are keyboards and guitars, a saw and a trashcan, unidentifiable stringed instruments and horns. Five young men in thrift-store suits jump around the stage, and a sign proclaims “I NEED SLEEP” in glowing red letters.
There’s a flash from below. It’s Dan’s brother, Stas, the official photographer for the band. He knows the drill, he was there for all the basement shows, the street gigs, the coffee shops. The song ends, and there is apprehensive applause. The onstage action has not stopped, however, as everyone switches instruments for the second song. I run across the stage to the organ, Justin pulls out his mandolin, DL grabs a guitar, and Brian sidles up to the instrument mic with his trumpet. The next song starts, and that’s when something clicks with the audience. Their skepticism is replaced with enthusiasm. Apprehensive stares are replaced with knowing grins. Feet are tapping and heads are bobbing.
This is a good show. We’ve won over the audience. There are always the shows, though, where people don’t tap their feet. There are shows where the hard, skeptical expressions don’t fade away. There are shows where people start requesting Blink 182 songs, and there are shows where people tell us to turn it down. We spend an entire day loading and unloading equipment, and somebody gets lost, and there’s no parking. Strings break and band members get sick. There are sound guys who just can’t understand that we have more than guitars, bass, and drums. Sometimes we play an entire show, and nobody cares and we don’t get paid. After a disappointing show, we’re all tired and everybody just wants to go home.
In the end, everyone has their victories and their losses. Some venues we talk about with great pride, retelling stories of our accomplishment as if we are great conquerors of distant lands. On the other hand, there are bars that are only spoken of in hushed tones, their names like demonic incantations that mortal men dare not speak out loud. Nothing can discourage us, though. We are the band that uses toy electric pianos and plastic flute-o-phones. We are the band that brought a gong to a high-school basement show. We always get back on stage, and in that glorious slice of time when all those lights and eyes are pointed solely at us, nothing matters except to rock out and dance like an idiot.
...
links:
- The web's first blogger has a breakdown - This is unsettling (10min quicktime, via)
- Bill Gates: Sex Machine? (via)
- "The Polar Express" and why motion-capture sucks - I heard the terrible zombie-like animation and character design scared the hell out of children (via)
- Gym Class (quicktime via Jim)
