Show Review...it's been a while.
The show starts, not with a bang, and not with a whimper-not even with the thud-thud-thud bassline which will set the tempo for the entire show. This show starts with a generous heaping helping of Dave Hamrick's onerous egomania. “A few months ago, I (note the special emphasis on 'I') was thinking of ways to make Sacrosanct better. Some cool things I could think of to do-bands to bring in. So we set something up with the Silver Ninjas, despite scheduling difficulties and now we've got them agreed to be here and we set up all their shit....and where are they? They aren't here! So I'm sorry to all you who paid your money, and are disappointed, but they're not here because of contractual difficulties. So fuck those guys!”
He will then attempt to lead the crowd in a rousing cheer of, “Fuck the Silver Ninjas.” This is, of course, when they, predictable as the ticking of a clock, in all their Silver Ninja regalia, slouch up onto the stage and stab him with plastic knives. They don't do this in a flash of speed and precision and motion like I would have hoped. They don't do this stealthily such that there's any question that Dave is doing anything but trying his good God damnedest NOT to look at them. No. They meander and shamble in the general direction of the stage in a lackluster way that screams full-bore to me, as a member of the audience, that this is a creation of Generation Y, and all its half-hearted glory.
If only they were real ninjas with real knives...and if wishes were horses...
Their first song is an assault of Thoom-Thoom noises occasionally perforated by Weee-Weee noises and dimly dimpled by some over-excited Devo reject in a silver body suit hollering repetitive angst into a microphone. Just so's you get that constant reminder that this is a show at Goth Night. In an amusing twist of universal chaos theory, their second song was an assault of Thoom-Thoom noises, occasionally perforated by Weee-Weee noises and dimly dimpled by some over-excited Devo reject in a silver body suit hollering repetitive angst into a microphone. Except the second time around, they feed it back to us with a dollop of feedback and it is performed to a decidedly smaller crowd which continues to thin by the minute.
The third song, finally, is a departure for them. A foray, if you will, into uncharted waters of creativity and originality. Much less Thoom-Thoom and Weee-Weee, but with much more angsty bellowing and delivered to a yet more wee and atrophied crowd.
When they reach what my bleeding ears dimly and distantly register as the third song-their powernoise powerballad to......fuck only knows what-the now aenemic crowd has, albeit reluctantly, ceased its attrition. Apparently, these are the vestigial handful of desperate shitheads who actually felt justified in paying the additional two bones for this marathon exercise in sonic abortion.
This music is to video game sound effects what Michael Bay is to the Transformers.
At some point, I hear something like a Pac-Man arcade game spinning, broken, in one of those air force high-G simulation centrifuges, and I can actually FEEL my childhood being raped by an ungainly biker-barbarian named Naugahyde.
The microphone pops and hums after the words, “Good night, now you die,” or something lame like that and I find myself belching prayer that these diseased mongoloids won't cry Encore. I fear even more that this is the kind of band that wouldn't need them to shout for an encore. Unnecessary, they'll think of that funny little idea, all on their own.
He will then attempt to lead the crowd in a rousing cheer of, “Fuck the Silver Ninjas.” This is, of course, when they, predictable as the ticking of a clock, in all their Silver Ninja regalia, slouch up onto the stage and stab him with plastic knives. They don't do this in a flash of speed and precision and motion like I would have hoped. They don't do this stealthily such that there's any question that Dave is doing anything but trying his good God damnedest NOT to look at them. No. They meander and shamble in the general direction of the stage in a lackluster way that screams full-bore to me, as a member of the audience, that this is a creation of Generation Y, and all its half-hearted glory.
If only they were real ninjas with real knives...and if wishes were horses...
Their first song is an assault of Thoom-Thoom noises occasionally perforated by Weee-Weee noises and dimly dimpled by some over-excited Devo reject in a silver body suit hollering repetitive angst into a microphone. Just so's you get that constant reminder that this is a show at Goth Night. In an amusing twist of universal chaos theory, their second song was an assault of Thoom-Thoom noises, occasionally perforated by Weee-Weee noises and dimly dimpled by some over-excited Devo reject in a silver body suit hollering repetitive angst into a microphone. Except the second time around, they feed it back to us with a dollop of feedback and it is performed to a decidedly smaller crowd which continues to thin by the minute.
The third song, finally, is a departure for them. A foray, if you will, into uncharted waters of creativity and originality. Much less Thoom-Thoom and Weee-Weee, but with much more angsty bellowing and delivered to a yet more wee and atrophied crowd.
When they reach what my bleeding ears dimly and distantly register as the third song-their powernoise powerballad to......fuck only knows what-the now aenemic crowd has, albeit reluctantly, ceased its attrition. Apparently, these are the vestigial handful of desperate shitheads who actually felt justified in paying the additional two bones for this marathon exercise in sonic abortion.
This music is to video game sound effects what Michael Bay is to the Transformers.
At some point, I hear something like a Pac-Man arcade game spinning, broken, in one of those air force high-G simulation centrifuges, and I can actually FEEL my childhood being raped by an ungainly biker-barbarian named Naugahyde.
The microphone pops and hums after the words, “Good night, now you die,” or something lame like that and I find myself belching prayer that these diseased mongoloids won't cry Encore. I fear even more that this is the kind of band that wouldn't need them to shout for an encore. Unnecessary, they'll think of that funny little idea, all on their own.