So I’m standing at the Union on Friday, watching Whale Zombie play, and some drunken broad saunters up to me and shouts, “WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THIS BAND?” I tell her I’m rather fond of them, and that I just wrote an article about their music. She explains that she often approaches show attendees at random and asks their opinions on the band playing. Isn’t she a little citizen-journalist-in-
Yes, I tell her, I’ve heard their singles. And no, I don’t think Whale Zombie sounds like them.
Dear stupid girl who suggested Whale Zombie’s music somehow resembles The Postal Service: you are an ignoramus. I’m surly that you could even compare this quirky, innovative band of gentleman to insincere, commercial, “indie” pop bullshit whose videos graced Fuse mid-millennia. I did not attempt to explain this to drunken girl, though. I didn’t see the point.
I don’t expect every resident claiming a 45701 zip code to recognize local band’s correct genre (or lack of). I have to applaud Whale Zombie for making music accessible enough to reach a wide audience – even if that includes silly Postal Service fans. If anything, it reminds me that those who frequent house shows must encourage SHOW ATTENDANCE! It’s the most viable antithesis to ignorance and fun for all.
Saturday rolls around and I trudge through the slush to the Spacement show. It’s pretty late and by the time I get there, Whale Zombie is setting up. I promptly realize I have forgotten my beverages at home, but Vilk informs me they’re the last band of the evening.
Bobb Hatt accompanies Whale Zombie on the saxophone on several songs. As WZ fades into “Jungles,” the light above my head begins flickering. It’s the kind that makes your eyeballs hurt and often makes appearances at middle school parties. The song climbs to the most epic part, the light flashing so fast and bright I can feel my pupils shrinking to the size of pinpricks. The place breaks into sporadic little moshings – the benign basement variety in which kids shove each other in jest, and the risk of sustaining injuries is virtually nonexistent. I notice drummer Chris Lute’s girlfriend Michelle giggling. She is watching the crowd react as she controls the lighting.
As WZ ends its set, Lute introduces the next band, “Metalflesh from Bangladesh” which sounds like a joke. The Spacement kids leak into the snow and light cigarettes. Right before I leave, I hear a well-dressed indie girl ask her boy next to her when Metalflesh from Bangladesh is playing.
--Dani Purcell, Senior Writer