falling silent
I've been quietly working myself up to the excitement that would be Night Train to Terror's biggest show ever this weekend, with tales spinning out in front of us of their name on billboards in the York area. They were headlining. This was huge.
So we arrived at the event, sponsored by Coors Lite, mostly alone on the stadium premises on the Penn State, York Campus. Synthetic-looking Coors Lite Girl™ was there to plasticly announce Coors Lite drafts were a buck! Then she disappeared on the toy dunebuggy with promoter into the woods for making out. Doormouse, who opened for Night Train at their last show at Small's in Harrisburg, was there opening with pretty sleepytime drones magic. Then a couple other bands played. Begin downward spiral. Freakishly warm day (albeit likely more seasonally appropriate) had cooled to a clear shiver. Enter worst band ever. They take the stage and not only announce but descriptively unveil their drunken state to the shrinking audience. Which they reiterate throughout their performance, moreso than actual singing. Or that tuneless, soulless act that might, if one were also likewise trashed, be mistaken for singing... which mysterioulsy the enthusiastic female audience members knew every word of. Probably including the chorus of Dude we're drunk.
Five minutes after their set was to end they announced they would be playing one, no, three more songs. Daggers shooting out of our collective eyes. Two songs and fifteen minutes later, Night Train is moving towards their instruments and promoter is hot on their tail, to inform them that the cops showed up and there have been too many complaints from the neighborhood folks. Night Train will not be playing.
The lads were paid with a case of The Crappiest Beer™ and sent home. The utter antithesis of the Best Show Ever.
refrain © Laura Kicey
The only saving grace was this visual sliver of silence that cropped up early on in the night.
If anyone who promotes shows in the Philly area would looooooooove to give Night Train a chance to play out in these here parts hit them up. NOW
In other promotional news, a few nights ago I went to the Adrienne Theater to see a play starring Sonja Robson, A Few Small Repairs. A ficticious tale based loosely on the story of Jackie Onassis' aunt, Edith Ewing Bouvier Beale and her daughter 'Little Edie" and the decrepit mansion they lived in.
Like I told her after I saw it, it was so much like going to these abandoned places I love and then being able to see the invisible story the photos I take would tell if they were full of people. It was a tragic and bizarre tale wrapped in a comedic gown. Go see it on stage if you have a chance, otherwise you might want to check out the documentary Grey Gardens which I am chaffing at the bit to see. Netflix give it 'ere!
Sponsored by your mama.
So we arrived at the event, sponsored by Coors Lite, mostly alone on the stadium premises on the Penn State, York Campus. Synthetic-looking Coors Lite Girl™ was there to plasticly announce Coors Lite drafts were a buck! Then she disappeared on the toy dunebuggy with promoter into the woods for making out. Doormouse, who opened for Night Train at their last show at Small's in Harrisburg, was there opening with pretty sleepytime drones magic. Then a couple other bands played. Begin downward spiral. Freakishly warm day (albeit likely more seasonally appropriate) had cooled to a clear shiver. Enter worst band ever. They take the stage and not only announce but descriptively unveil their drunken state to the shrinking audience. Which they reiterate throughout their performance, moreso than actual singing. Or that tuneless, soulless act that might, if one were also likewise trashed, be mistaken for singing... which mysterioulsy the enthusiastic female audience members knew every word of. Probably including the chorus of Dude we're drunk.
Five minutes after their set was to end they announced they would be playing one, no, three more songs. Daggers shooting out of our collective eyes. Two songs and fifteen minutes later, Night Train is moving towards their instruments and promoter is hot on their tail, to inform them that the cops showed up and there have been too many complaints from the neighborhood folks. Night Train will not be playing.
The lads were paid with a case of The Crappiest Beer™ and sent home. The utter antithesis of the Best Show Ever.
refrain © Laura Kicey
The only saving grace was this visual sliver of silence that cropped up early on in the night.
If anyone who promotes shows in the Philly area would looooooooove to give Night Train a chance to play out in these here parts hit them up. NOW
In other promotional news, a few nights ago I went to the Adrienne Theater to see a play starring Sonja Robson, A Few Small Repairs. A ficticious tale based loosely on the story of Jackie Onassis' aunt, Edith Ewing Bouvier Beale and her daughter 'Little Edie" and the decrepit mansion they lived in.
Like I told her after I saw it, it was so much like going to these abandoned places I love and then being able to see the invisible story the photos I take would tell if they were full of people. It was a tragic and bizarre tale wrapped in a comedic gown. Go see it on stage if you have a chance, otherwise you might want to check out the documentary Grey Gardens which I am chaffing at the bit to see. Netflix give it 'ere!
Sponsored by your mama.
posted by helveticaneue at 5:25 PM
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