While digging through the
Wayback Machine archives, I found this old review of an April, 2003
Zambonis show. This review originally appeared on a weirder web-log than this one called
Serious Danger, but thanks to server crashes and site redesigns and what-have-you, it's not there anymore. This seems like as good a place as any to repost it.
It was originally published with handsome photographs, but they're lost forever. You'll have to use your imagination to envision Tribeca during that thrilling spring so many years ago, back when my "temp" job still seemed temporary, and I figured I was probably as out-of-shape as I'd ever be.
"I don't want to beat around the bush," says principal Zambonis frontman Dave Schneider between songs. "It's just songs about hockey." As a fictionalized stripper once said, you gotta have a gimmick. This is niche marketing, see, and it motherfucking works.
The evening begins badly: Tribeca's doorman charges our reviewer ten dollars, two more than the advertised price. Our reviewer doesn't make a stink because the doorman is a large man. What's two dollars anyway, unless you are homeless, or starving in a third-world nation, or a spokesperson for one of those 10-10-collect numbers, like Terry Bradshaw or Alf? Our reviewer is kind of a cheapskate, and it would do him some good to get over it.
Our reviewer's evening gets worse before it gets better, as he's unfortunate enough to have arrived in time to see the bill's second band, Brazil, from Indiana.
"How's everybody doing?" Brazil's frontman asks.
Note to aspiring rockers: don't ask how everybody is doing, unless you're trying to be funny by mocking the kind of tool who asks how everybody is doing without trying to be funny.
Our reviewer is willing to forgive Brazil's frontman for this first misstep, but the cheesy little snit is putting on a clinic in how not to entertain. He has full sleeve tattoos, which our reviewer finds ridiculous on anyone who's not a skinhead or samurai. He reels around the stage in an apparent attempt to conjure some "angst," and every once in a while, when the music moves him, he thrusts his fist into the air, dopily. Sometimes he points at his temple, as if to say dude, my lyrics are totally, like, about, like, how fucked people are. Like, in the head. This pose also gives him an opportunity to try to flex a bicep.
Sometimes, when the crappy music reaches what our reviewer can only assume is supposed to be an emotional apogee, Brazil's frontman points straight up at the ceiling like a high school cheerleader at a pep rally. This is the stupidest gesture in his repertoire — which is saying something, because his onstage schtick is a symphony in the key of stupid. "We're number one!" he seems to be saying. Our reviewer is inclined to disagree: Brazil is a load of number two.
Hatred wells up in our reviewer's breast. He does some breathing exercises to try to chill the fuck out. He tries to imagine how he could enjoy these schmucks any less. (Maybe if one of them played an instrument that tortured kittens, each of whom wauled a different note.) Mercifully, Brazil's long setup time cuts into their set, and their time onstage is abbreviated.
Next, the Zambonis take the stage to perpetrate their unique brand of rink-rock. They handle a heckler with tact. Two of them wear helmets. Our reviewer thinks he recognizes one of them from past issues of that NHL HOT STUFF catalog. What was it called? Our reviewer doesn't remember. It wasn't HOT STUFF, but it was something like that. Maybe it was HOT STUFF, actually. It was a catalog of jerseys, hats, souvenirs, and stuff, and there was a guy who appeared on every third page or so, singling out a product for praise. Was it this guy? His name was Dave, for sure, but he had a moustache. Moustaches, however, come and go. Time is a river.
Thinking about this gives our reviewer the queer feeling that the affable hockey-rocker onstage has accompanied him to the bathroom, in catalog form. Maybe it wasn't him.
The 'Bonis' set includes no fewer than three guest appearances, the actual number depending on how you count. Our reviewer can make a case for counting six guest-appearance units, but our reviewer plays fast and loose with figures; you should see his tax return.
Among the guests are the evening's headliner, Atom, who sports an old-school Canucks jersey for the occasion. Does this sweater evince fandom or fashion? It's impossible to know, but consider this anecdote, which may or may not be telling:
At the merch table before the show, our reviewer pays Atom a compliment on his 2001 release Redefining Music. Atom accepts this compliment "even though [our reviewer] like[s] the fucking Red Wings."
Our reviewer doesn't think this is entirely necessary. It's easy to bristle at the Magnificent Red Wings and their fans these days, now that they're an unstoppable juggernaut of Winged Victory, but where was Atom and his smart mouth throughout the 1980s? (Philadelphia, possibly. What does our reviewer look like, the gaddamned Atom & His Package S[eldom]AQ?)
Other onstage guests include mad geniuses Little T and One-Track Mike (our reviewer's companion says weird MC Little T looks "slightly palsied") and the World Famous Hockey Monkey.
Our reviewer has only nice things to say about these Zambonis. A good time is had by all, with the possible exception of the World Famous Hockey Monkey. Our reviewer hopes the ape suit isn't a rental, what with all the sweating that must be going on inside.
The last band on the bill is the aforementioned Atom & his Package. Although the Package is "a few music sequencers and synthesizers," Atom refers to his act in the plural: "We are Atom and..."
It's cute.
It wouldn't surprise our reviewer if this show was all-ages at Atom's request, since he seems like the sort of progressive, P.C., D.I.Y. S.O.B. who'd be into that sort of thing. All-ages shows are a good idea in theory, since kids need to have places to go, or they get into trouble tipping cows over or lighting homeless people on fire. It varies by region.
In practice, however, holy shit. It is no fun to share space with teenagers. Our reviewer disliked it even when he was one. They're ill-mannered, loud, and lack the funds and legal status to take their turn buying a round. In the future, our reviewer will take "all ages" to mean "all ages under 18" and pass.
And the "moshing!" No one over the age of 16 thinks this is fun. Scratch that — one guy does, and our reviewer has the bad fortune of standing right next to him. He's got a shorn head, a loud mouth, and a badly-used girlfriend who would probably have left him two years ago when she was still pretty, if she'd known he wasn't going to grow out of this shit, but now it's too late. Our reviewer takes some comfort in the fact that this stooge's number is overdue. Anyone with judgment as bad as baldy's is certain to meet an accidental death soon, much to the relief of all the rest of us.
None of this is Atom's fault. He entertains, entertainingly. His songs are clever and funny, and between them he's cleverer and funnier.
After the show, the great big doorman bellers at everyone to disperse from in front of the club, because the loitering disturbs the neighbors, who will call the cops, who will issue a fine, which is five thousand dollars, which the club will make us loiterers pay, which, fat fucking chance, dickhead. Alright, we're moving, but do you really think our lingering on the sidewalk bothers the neighbors more than your obnoxious hollering?
Tribeca Rock Club
16 Warren St
New York, NY 10007-2247
(212) 766-1070
9 stars (of a possible 10): Must we see ya in the pit?