By Steve Knapp, writer and frontman of Something Keen

A Thought in the Present

It’s always a bitterly ominous bite to a writer’s leap into narrative when they strike their skull on the desk they mean to call home as an article brews. Regardless, with no lack of certainty, the very show I set out to review was quite the antithesis of this unfortunate happening. This little bit of information is good news for you and, if we’re being honest, was great news for myself. Because in a time of war, riot and widespread disease, who couldn’t use a little rock music?

The Night Began with Burnt Plastic

It’s a tricky job figuring out the right way to get yourself to a bar for a show—for obvious reasons. Land on the wrong choice and you might find yourself living a life of regret. My associate, Kevin, and I decided it was best to take advantage of the always ready Car2Go and cab our way home.

I had been looking forward to this concert for some time and my mind was abuzz with expectations for what seems to be one of the last bastions of a forgotten era of psychedelic progressive rock. In a city with pockets of genres growing every which way, this was an important trait to latch onto. If we’re being honest, I also needed justification for my alienated high school counterpart locking himself in his parents’ basement to listen to Rush records instead of going to parties.

This show took place over at the Parsons-famous Carabar. My first memory of the bar was from a night out in college seeing the Columbus classic, Psychedelic Horseshit, at one of their album release parties. That was also in a period when the east side wasn’t visited as often as it is now—for better or for worse—and incidentally, the first time I encountered prostitution. For that and a few other reasons, this trip would prove to be much tamer. Although I’m fairly convinced our little Car2Go started melting as the strong smell of burning plastic surrounded me and Kevin once we arrived. God knows what caused it but the best course of action was to get the hell out of that tiny sonofabitch as fast as possible before it gave birth to flames. I wasn’t entirely convinced we weren’t a part of a newly constructed Bomb2Go (buh dum tish).

After our evacuation, we found ourselves in a decently busy bar despite arriving a half-hour early. That was either a testament to the popularity of the acts or the passion of Carabar’s regulars. I took it to be a positive sign. There’s always been a good atmosphere here and a good crowd, regardless of their motive, does nothing less than to add to that.

Wild Hum Takes the Stage

There’s a sort of injustice that occurs when a down-tempo act takes the stage first at a rock show. The zombie reincarnate of Woody Guthrie could be strumming out Jimmy Cracked Corn and I’d still be inclined to take a piss before giving the poor bastard a chance. However, the night’s opener drew me in and held my attention long enough to enjoy a whiskey done up in such a way it wouldn’t drive the night into the ground.

Surprising enough, it didn’t take a single strum to pull a small portion of the bar to the stage. Our golden-locked, acoustic hero made his way through the assorted bodies of concert goers and landed himself atop a stool; the house lights stayed lit for this one, not sure why. From there he set into a modern take on acoustic prog ballads of the past.

I respected the man for having a consistency to what he played: breathy chords and a melodic sensibility not dissimilar to the harder hitting acts that lay in wait. But, and what a ‘but’ it was, that damn injustice kept nipping at me and caused my focus to wane.

I turned away from the stage, “This is a pretty mixed crowd.”

It took a moment for Kevin to register that I was talking to him. I could see the statement click with him as his head began to scan the scalps swaying in front of our station. He nodded.

“Did you know, they say Pete Best was kicked out of the Beatles for being too much of a…er…focal point for their lady fans.” I wasn’t really sure where that outburst of trivia came from but I stood by it. Focus be damned!

“Wait, what?”

“You know, from the Beatles, Pete Best.”

Still unsure of my intentions, he responded, “I’ve heard something like that, yes. So what? ”

“There are more girls here than I expected, it just reminded me of that little tidbit.”

Not that I was trying to make some kind of sexually charged statement, but progressive headlining acts are notoriously embraced by a predominantly male audience. I also realized that kind of thinking is horribly toxic to a music scene, but it’s not an entirely unfounded observation. He looked at me for a brief moment of understanding before he adjusted his focus back toward the stage. I just sipped my drink that already started to drown in its own melted rocks.

It was a consistent performance and he held the original crowd throughout except for a few of the less committed. He finished his last note and looked no worse for the wear before thanking the audience for listening. It wasn’t the most exciting set but it was captivating on some level, if only enough to get me to listen later on.

With the intermission amongst us, I decided the right play was to make my way to the ever so luxurious unmarked Carabar bathroom. That of course required me to skirt my way past “backstage.” I knew it would be interesting since it’s essentially a crossroads of people thrown into martini mixer sharing only a passion for harmonies and melodies in common. The hall was filled with garbled conversations topped with shouts of drugs and how “these house lights need to be smashed the fuck out!” Beautiful call but it would prove to be wishful thinking.

Pants That Cast a Shadow

The next act, Red Feathers, quite promptly began their setup but it wasn’t a mad rush, they knew what they were doing. That calm was soon broken and things took a turn toward the wild as the vocalist took the stage. I’ll put it this way: it’s a testament to a front man when the first thing a crowd notices is his pant situation. I believe a man who found his way next to our table said it best,

“Those pants…that man’s cock casts a shadow!”

An astute observation to say the least, but it was nothing short of the Gospel truth. It was a trip back to the days of incomprehensible lyrics and front men throwing everything out there for their craft. Other than the singer, the lead guitarist had his own thing going on with a veil of golden discs draped over his nose and mouth. This kind of pageantry is something so easy to screw up, but when it’s done right, it gets me damn excited for a show. In this case, that excitement was more than answered for.

Maybe it was simply their energy onstage but they had something special going on with their sound: a tidal wave of crunchy classic rock riffs with vocals that could pass as Jim Morrison and Neil Young’s unholy love child. Oddly enough, the lights stayed on once again, which attracted the attention of the vocalist,

“How about these lights come down?”

It was no use; the four-piece would get no luminary justice. Then a pause.

The hell?

The music halted. The best I could tell from the back of the pack was a drink had been spilled. They were quick to react though. A quick count off and they got back after it. A respectable save.

I soon found myself tired of watching the backs of heads and knew my El Dorado of rock satisfaction would be found toward the front. I tried my best to squeeze through the fans who had finally pried themselves away from the bar to get some kind of pictures or proof that this did actually take place. Over tables and across a bench I went to get a closer taste of the action.

Aha!

I found myself a spot crunched beneath the PA system over top a vent spewing cold air up my spine. By the time I could get my camera (read: cell phone) out they started into their third number. That was when I experienced something I hadn’t seen in a long while: the singer flew off the stage and into the crowd to get them going essentially starting his own pit. All the while he proceeded to peel layers of clothing off.

With his jacket gone and shirt hanging on him like a climber dangling off a sheer cliff face, he returned to the stage raising a newly acquired mug of beer to the heavens.

“Where in the hell did that magnificent bastard get that?” I thought to myself.

As they started up a new song a torrent of dancing flooded the room followed by a shower of alcohol raining down on the front row. They somehow kept this pace up throughout their performance and by the finale that marched like a bolero—albeit an up-tempo bolero as contradictory as that sounds—the band looked as though they had just gotten back from war.

I have to add that the sound guy at Carabar has to have been around the block a few times. It was easily one of the best mixes I have heard in town, or at least better than anything my musical endeavors have received.

Big Ass Bass Drums and Pokey Table Guests

I left Kevin to spend intermission at the main bar. To my surprise and disappointment the bar was crammed full of new patrons, most likely Red Feathers’ fans. The only play I had was to order one final drink and close out my tab in silence. The pockets of people around me were all consumed with conversations that had been kicked off long before I wandered over for more booze. I found myself alone, not the most fun experience but it happens, I won’t complain. It was in this forced solitude that I noticed an oddly distinct bottle on the shelf with the other spirits. It looked as though it was made out of clay and painted with a color palette straight out of a Myrtle Beach gift shop. Its most prominent feature was a wavy orange-yellow sun with a lazy face. The bartender made his way back with my check.

“I’ve got a question: what’s in the sun bottle over there?” I tried to be quick because I could tell he was busy.

“Oh that? It’s empty.”

Good lord, I needed a better answer than that! I raked the disappointment off my face and posed a second query.

“What was in it then?”

“It’s been kicked so long that I can’t remember. Some kind of tequila, I think.”

I choked out a chuckle, “Got ya. Well, thanks.”

He smiled and slid a paper-filled tray my way before maneuvering his way to the other end of the bar. That was anticlimactic to say the least…A DOLLAR EXTRA FOR ICE?! Oh well, at least I had Eye’s set to look forward to in order to sooth my financial pains.

I got back to the table with my newly established luxury drink. Kev had made a friend, or something along those lines. They weren’t talking so I guess our battle station had been more invaded than amicably joined.

I set my sights on our guest, “How’s it going?”

He looked surprised.

“It’s going alright.”

Not a talker, I suppose.

“Excited for Eye?”

He let out a bashful laugh, “Yeah.”

“Right, well my name’s Steve. Yours?”

“Bill.”

This guy was killing me with his indifference. He turned back toward the stage. Kevin didn’t even attempt to make an introduction; smart move. The bastard knew what he was here for and didn’t give a damn what anyone thought of him. Bold, lonely and yet—on some level—respectable.

Setup was nearly complete by the end of my Bill experience. This time around, something a little less phallic caught my attention: the drummer had one of the biggest bass drums I had ever seen. There was no other way to describe it: it was one big-ass bass drum. But knowing their recorded sound, it was could only be a fitting addition. I also couldn’t help but notice the boys up there had quite a solid air of professionalism about them. They knew what they were there to do and they were going to do it well. That really comes with the territory, however. If you’re going to play a technical genre of music, you’d better do a damn good job keeping it tight.

They kicked off the night with their single, Cultrider, which came as no surprise or disappointment to anyone familiar with their most recent release. The audience had actually tagged out to a different set of listeners with a little crossover, of course. It was a good group; no one seemed to be there for any other reason than to enjoy the music—there was no scene to be impressed. And impressed they were! Eye sounded on point with every note and delivered exactly what their album advertised. Although I’ve been told in the past that this isn’t always ideal, that sometimes blemishes humanize a band and add to the experience. I say shut the hell up and let the band be as clean as they’d like. My only complaint was that the room was far too bright and there was an absence that only a laser light show could fill (wishful thinking, I know).

Eye plowed from one song to the next with no discernible flaws and the show took on an ambiance that made up for the lack of atmosphere. I came for their music but the experience as a whole let my mind drift to other things and I mean that in an entirely good way. I was blissfully absorbed by their cosmic riffing and all was right in the world. The barkeeps could be slipping drops containing the Ebola virus into everyone’s drinks and they wouldn’t begin to care until after the psychedelic mind melt was over.

When my thoughts were finally able to break away, I noticed the crowd had dwindled. I could only assume that was due to Columbus’ early bedtime, but the show was slowly but surely coming to an end so it wasn’t a complete disaster. Besides, Kevin and I would be following suit shortly after the notes in that beautiful mix stopped ringing. The small-scale exodus revealed the one major flaw of the evening: it was an exciting show but it seemed like the overall energy petered out by the end. Not the fault of the acts, however, the atmosphere was mostly to blame.

If only they had broken those damn house lights…