One, But Not the Same

It’s the gnarly-instrument factor. That’s what weirds out most people about one-man bands — the freakish, off-kilter contraptions such as the boingy stringed pipes played by That One Guy or the road-worn corpses and monkeys of Captured by Robots. To be a fan, you can’t be disturbed by the fact that a grown person sits at home constructing an instrument out of found folderol, then wants to play that thing for you.

But such theatrics are what the Brick’s owner, Sheri Parr, finds interesting. In the past, she has booked one-person acts such as the two mentioned above, and on December 8, she held the first-ever Battle of the One-Man Bands, tapping John Ferguson, an area musician who organized the successful Band Scrambles I and II, to be the host.

Parr had toyed with the idea for years and was confident that there would be enough talented and creative locals to answer the challenge. Though frightened by the prospect of bearded men wielding frying pans and didgeridoos, I couldn’t pass up the chance to be a judge at the competition, because, frankly, no one asks me to judge anything. So I joined Ferguson and Jeff Harshbarger (bassist in Tango Lorca, among others) to decide who should get the prizes of $150, $100 and $50.

The Brick was not a hot spot after last Wednesday’s big snowfall, but a surprising eight contestants had signed up.

The first was Brodie Rush. The famous karaoke host and Be/Non leader got the night off to a smashing start. After downing three shots, he played looping riffs on the bass and two guitars (with two amps set up in the audience for increased whompage), laid in some screaming harmony vocals, then picked up sticks and played a freakout beat on his green-lit translucent drum set. He ended his 15-minute run with ejaculatory spurts of Silly String.

It was wacky, but it didn’t prepare us for what came next.

After a worrisome 45-minute setup, contestant No. 2, Amy Farrand, was ready to go. The American Catastrophe and Shotgun Idols bassist had basically built a children’s playroom; she erected a nursery backdrop and covered the amps with cardboard boxes painted to look like alphabet blocks. Cables led from her arms and legs through pulleys in the ceiling to dangling percussion baubles, giving her a puppetlike appearance (enhanced by her Charlie McCarthy costume).

Around her onstage were a kick drum and a kick snare, a theremin, a keyboard, a guitar balanced on a stand, and a petroleum can. She played a ramshackle groove on the instruments with mallets while reciting a rhyming narrative that moved from the tale of a dejected toy to a commentary on women’s rights to a rant against the Bush administration, which got the crowd cheering. Her rig nearly fell apart a couple of times, but by the time her performance ended, I had begun to understand why the one-man band had been invented — for spontaneity, for one-to-many direct communication. Unfortunately, the next act had the former but not the latter.

After a short setup, the curtain revealed a guy holding an electric bass and an acoustic guitar upright on a stool, tapping down on the strings and kicking indiscriminately at a half-circle of drums at his feet. All improv and no apparent clue, Aaron Smith created a cacophony of pointless staccato that was broken only when he switched the instruments from hand to hand or donned one of two hands-free harmonica braces.

Like a Saturday Night Live character who goes insane because he can’t determine the gender of Pat, I struggled to figure out whether Smith was serious or mocking us all. I may never know.

The next act was Farrand’s American Catastrophe bandmate Terrence Moore, who played just an acoustic guitar and a harmonica. The approach was too orthodox for the contest, and when he tried to follow up with looping electric-guitar instrumentals, his project crashed because of off timing and mike feedback.

The battle strayed even further from the spirit when Ted Hoffman broke the rules by using a prerecorded track. Worse, his cheesy songs were straight out of the ’70s songbook that survives today only on bad radio stations. Toto would have dug it, though.

The next act reflected a more appropriate DIY mentality. The mini-mulleted Terry Gann sported a speaker on his back, to which he had connected an over-the-shoulder mike, an iPod, a preamp and a guitar. Gann sang his heart out and worked the room as he switched among bass, guitar, mandolin and keyboards. The trouble was that his music was straight Loverboy-flavored ’80s cock rock. As judge Jeff put it, “It was like someone sprayed my face with hate spray.” Harsh, but he had a point: Why build all that cool gear if you’re just going to mimic white-bread, AOR schlock?

Next up, electronic knob-twister MC Popular started by blowing a speaker. After a few more minutes of half-started beats and apologies, he finished with an accidental feedback squeal that gave the crowd a collective headache. After thanking everyone, MC Popular wisely made himself scarce.

After those acts, it was easy for contestant eight, Thomas O’Toole, to be a hero. Looping and chopping together bass, guitar, mandolin and vocal scatting, O’Toole played several upbeat ditties that would have made Jack Johnson envious.

By the end, though, Amy Farrand, the most original act of the night, was our champ. O’Toole came in second, and we had to check our scorecards to decide between Rush and the cheesy but impressive Gann for third. The numbers favored the more spontaneous and original Rush.

At times, I had wanted to bean some of the contestants with a beer glass, but it had taken balls to get up there all alone and try to make the music of many. In a band, you’re regarded collectively. If the band sucks, you can leave it and start over. But when you are the band, it’s all you. So let’s hear it for Aaron, Terrence, Ted, Terry and MC Pop — OK, maybe not MC Popular.

But, please — start practicing now for next year.