It's been nearly nine months since I last saw
The Shout Out Louds. The second time round was no less glorious than the first and around 300 dollars cheaper. Last time I paid for my ticket, a T shirt and 260 dollars to get my car out of the towing company's lot. Bitches.
After waiting nearly 40 minutes past when the doors were supposedly to openm the small and eager crowd of indie fuckwits was let into The Varsity Theater to wait another 40 minutes to be let at the stage. Being a true stage whore I was, of course, up front for all three bands performing that night. Ohio natives,
The Sun, wooed the crowd of barely 18 year old giddy scenester girls with their dork-ish good looks and Weezer-esk sound.
For some God-awful reason
The Rosebuds were higher up on the food chain and played after The Sun. By the end of their performance I had seriously considered, killing myself, killing the band, and or just smashing their instuments in a desperate attempt to breath life into an otherwise dead performance. Their sound was actually quite good, if only the lead singer would open his eyes more than twice.
Everyone's favorite Swedes,
The Shout Out loads took the stage slightly before 11 PM and in an instant made up for everything that was horrible of the performance proceeding them.
At some point during their short but delicious performance I remember deliberating when exactly they had become an indie teeny-bopper poster band, but choose instead to dance a tad too exuberantly to
Oh Sweetheart and
The Comeback.
They played a well balanced selection of tunes from their debut album,
Howl, Howl, Gaff Gaff and two from previous EP's. I was saddened that
But Then Again No was not one of these, but luckily
I Wish I was Dead Part 2 was.
The show itself was all you would expect from a band playing to an overly wealthy indie snob crowd who tend to view displays of emotion as taboo. Maybe this is why I can't fit in. I have the dancing fever....and it burns deep inside.
One good thing to having a teen-bopper draw is the endless supply of girls who instead of crossing their arms and nodding their heads in mechanical scenester-rhythm, dance awkwardly in an attempt to get one of the band members to notice them as they whore themselves out for all to see.
Cheers my drum playing, glasses wearing, bald friend. Cheers.
....If only the majority of the crowd, myself included, were of drinking age.
