rbThe night started as a non-musical bonding experience with some musicians that I play with, until one of them suggested that we check out The Living Room, a small seated venue on Ludlow Street in lower Manhattan that charges NO cover. The rest of us, either being from New England or having gone to college in Rhode Island, only know the Living Room as a seedy venue with a great sound system in Providence that attracts national alternative music acts.
After we finally got in on our second attempt (too crowded initially), we caught the last song of Ingrid Michaelson, an indie pop rocker from Brooklyn, and her supporting band. The mixed gender six-piece group (vocals, acoustic and electric guitar, bass, drums, and piano) wasn’t good or bad, they were just kind of…there. The mix was quiet, perhaps intentionally, but it was also off, as the bass and piano were barely audile. To be fair, we did only hear one song, but nothing from that short experience hinted at why there was a capacity crowd. Later on, I found out that some of Ingrid’s music has been played on ABC’s hit drama, “Grey’s Anatomy.” This would, pardon my sexism, explain both the size of the crowd and the large percentage of X chromosomes represented.
Next up was Noam Weinstein, a bearded indie singer/songwriter on guitar and vocals, supported by a traditional drum and bass rhythm section and piano. The first few songs were rather blah compositions, with the piano dominating and the guitar seeming almost ancillary. Over the course of the set, however, the bluesy-folk tinged indie pieces became endearing and quite enjoyable. The rhythm section played solidly with nothing too fancy, allowing for the piano and emotive vocals to star. The most unfortunate part was Noam Weinstein’s lyrics, which featured less than clever profundities such as “Is the World too big/ Or am I too small?” and “We don’t know where we’re going/But we’re all going there.”
As the final act began to setup with solid equipment, including a flying v guitar, the consensus at the table was that this band was either going to be really good or really bad. After the guitarist/singer put on aviators and asked a friend in the crowd to tune his guitar, the discussion turned to just how bad they were going to be. But as soon as the group blasted into John Mellencamp’s “Our Country”(which happens to be featured on Chevy commercials), with mumbled lyrics and backup vocalists who can’t sing, it was clear that this was a joke band. For the first half-an-hour, it was entertaining, from Grease covers to the lead singer’s false arrogance that he lead the best band in the world.
But after the initial 30 minutes, cutting songs 15 seconds in and replaying “Our Country” got old. But they continued to play on and on, pissing people off to the point of leaving probably being part of their shtick. Both willing to play along and legitimately annoyed, we began to heckle the band, screaming requests for “Freebird” or other annoying and/or ridiculous choices for covers. After about an hour, even the guitarists hilariously and purposely botched solos were no longer bearable. We decided the only way to leave was to storm out. As we did so, the band actually stopped to mention and comment on our march out. Both the band and our table had succeeded.
Note: The last band, which I don’t think ever actually introduced themselves, are called Rawles Balls.
