When Hambone invited me to join Mystery, Riverboat, and himself to see the too cool for school glitter rock act, Of Montreal, I was immediately suspicious of their use of prepositions.
What, exactly, was of Montreal?
I didn’t get it, but hey, nobody needs to tell me I need to get out more. I spent a half hour trying to find a pair of pants and out we rolled.
The band was coming on just as we walked in the door at 10:00 P:M and I was thinking- “Great! maybe we can get out of here by 12:00”.
You are hoplelessly adrift from your rock and roll roots when the prospect of bedtime is the thing that excites you most at a show. Our little troupe moved dutifully onto the dance floor to enjoy the headliner act only to find out after 5 songs that this was not actually Of Montreal. If you knew anything about anything you would know this was not Of Montreal. The worst part had to be when Hambone was screaming “I love you Of Montreal!” with his Sabbath fingers in the air.
The crowd at this show, I believe people may call them the “emo-rock crowd” but I’m not sure. All I know is boy or girl they all had the most unfortunate-looking haircuts, as if the school jocks had pulled them into the media room (formerly library) and sheared their bangs in the paper cutter, then scalped the nape of their neck with the wrestling coach’s clippers.
Of Montreal came out and they were…
Over my head? Under my radar? The Steely Dan of the modern era?
It doesn’t matter. I just wanted to watch Matlock and go to bed.