A badass show, a ripped collar and a RB peacemaker squad

Saturday afternoon’s Super Black Market, Architects and the Bronx show at the Record Bar was badass — but one member of the audience tried to take his own sense of badassery too far.

Photo credit: Samantha Levi Frisbee

The show began at 6 to a mostly empty house with Super Black Market tearing it up like they just didn’t give a fuck. (It was an all-ages show and the last stop of the Architects/Bronx tour, so I imagine the last-minuteness of it all led to the early show time because there was a second concert already booked that night). Singer and bass player Sonny has the most savage smile of any frontman in town. When he’s not ripping screams into the mic, he’s slinging his Fender P around like a single fireman trying to control a gushing hose, taking wide-legged steps all over the stage and front speakers and, of course, flashing those teeth like a deranged Viking. My first impression of the band and their stellar debut on local label Minnow, titled “…will sell anything,” is equal parts fun and fury. They cry out against the war with as much energy as when they sound the party call, and there’s nobody else like ’em in town.

Next, the Architects threw down a better set than I’ve seen in a while — probably because I haven’t seen them play for more than 20 minutes lately (more on that later). A friend I ran into at the show insists that Revenge is American Idiot part 2, and he means that as a compliment. I would agree, except I’m grateful to the Architects for not writing anything similar to that one generic stinker “Boulevard of [*yawn*] Broken Dreams.” My main thought during the show was, how do you hold an electric guitar and make is sound that good?

The third band was the Bronx. The most striking thing about this LA-based band is that the singer, Matt Caughthran, looks about as much like a hardcore frontman as Bob Balaban does a porn star. Balding on top and clad in a long-sleeve shirt, Caughthran erased all doubt as to his worthiness to hold the mike when he began unleashing sharp howls and jumping down and busting through the wired audience all the while wearing a knowing grin that seemed to say, “betcha didn’t know I could do that, fucker.” The sonic machinery of the Bronx tore through the RB’s concrete foundation, and a solid core of moshers kept the dancefloor refreshingly unsafe the entire show.

However, the third-or-so song brought the ejection of a guy up front who was evidently being belligerent. As bouncer Cartoon led the black-haired, older-looking (say, late 20s) guy out, Caughthran voiced dismay, but within minutes, the show was rolling again.

It wasn’t until the end of the show that hell broke loose. First, some guys I knew found out that the guy who had gotten kicked out (let’s call him the Miscreant) was waiting outside to fight. The guy whom the Miscreant had started shit with had torn the collar of the Miscreant’s shirt and had not gotten thrown out, and evidently the Miscreant wanted revenge. I looked outside, and, sure enough, the Miscreant was there, leaning against a pole facing the door, waiting to throw down. Then, an ambulance arrived because someone in the crowd — all signs pointed to the Miscreant’s girlfriend — had passed out, either because of an overdose or a diabetic attack or just because of the sheer drama of the evening.

It was dusk outside, and I waited on the porch, helping the Architects load up gear and waiting to see if there would have to be a fight. I really hoped there wouldn’t. It looked bad enough for the Record Bar that an ambulance was parked outside. I didn’t want there to be police cars and news vans as well. I didn’t really know either of the parties, but if there was a fight, followed by a surge from the Good Guys to break it up, I was going to join the peacemaker squad. I will also confess to having journalistic interest in the proceedings, but, hey, before I’m a reporter, I’m a Protector!

The band playing the evening show, National Fire Theory link: http://www.nationalfiretheory.net/, began loading in, and the loiterers – all except the Miscreant – trickled away. I figured Good Guy #1 went out the back, so I left the Miscreant and walked home, peeed in some bushes on the way, cooked up some steak au poivre and went to sleep.

My pal Bill took pictures of the concert, viewable on his photo blog.

You should also watch the video for the Bronx’s “History’s Stranglers.” It’s fuckin’ sick.