Outside my doors: An Introvert-spective (Thursday 10/16 at the Analog)

Outside my doors: An Introvert-spective
Thursday at the Analog

By Brian Dykeman

Performers: M.a.r.k., Mantra Fear and Comfort Zone
Date: Thursday Oct 16th
Location: Ground floor of the Analog Cafe; No cover, no stamp.

Entering the establishment a roped off flight of stairs meets me, I hang an immediate left into a bar adorned with suspended mason jars with lights installed in them. The often used, but still clever ornament lends a compliment to the light colors in the place for an overall aesthetic I appreciate.

Platitudes aside, Conversation begins with Chris from Mantra Fear regarding a desire to listen to his music on vinyl. I bring up the topic of colored vinyl and Chris mentions a record he owned that was complete with an integrated blood splatter. I advance the idea that had the blood splattered album been a Carpenter album it would have added even more fuel to the merit of their band. Phil then mentions he regards Karen Carpenter's drumming as an inspiration, even though he claims to play nothing like her. We wax poetic about the fact Phil was actually playing a Carpenters Pandora station at work not several days before and I bring up the song ‘Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft,’ wondering why Sonic Youth didn’t cover that one with their accomplished means at altering the feelings a well known piece of music can dredge up.

Suggestions of fictional interesting band names and names for their corresponding albums then entertained our conversation as we waited for M.a.r.k. to get into character and take the stage:

Band: Wolf Sodomy

Albums: Move your Tail; Snout full and Paws to the floor.

Band: Forehead Swastika

Albums: Jew Boy; the cover art Chris mentions would be best to include the close up of a band member's face without a swastika on their forehead.

“You can’t bring up Nazism without also bringing up Judaism,” I add. They’re adversely linked. Thoughts of Manson and his link to the Beach Boys then arise…

Revised proposed Album title then became: Coast Child

M.a.r.k takes the stage as we tie up poking at hot button subject. A one man band name whose acronym he claims stands for: ‘Murder ain't right cause you gotta treat each other right.’ M.a.r.k. trails off mentioning a sponsorship from Sears and their link to flying him from where he is from: Greece, Witherspoon.

With a voice best described as a Cross between Macho Man Randy Savage and... Macho Man Randy Savage, he starts an amplified acoustic set with his legs providing percussion on a bass drum and high hat. I felt his themes and methods of playing were strikingly reminiscent of early tongue and cheek Beck styling and what others would more popularly claim was a heavy Tenacious D influence.

With a PA speaker located just right of center; in front of the stage, Annoyance set in quite quickly for the night as it made me feel like I was always poking my head around a column, leading to what I imagine was a psychosomatic sore neck. Drowned in a sheath of blue light M.a.r.k. played his songs and told his stories wearing sunglasses and a brittle plastic mouse mask atop a long, straight blonde wigged brow. I think he sang 'He'd rather fuck my Mom' at one point. Indicative of a motivation I would certain imagine Jack Black spouting.

Sitting in a chair by the bar with scents of clove smoke and a smell of beer breathed halitosis I could swear was somehow on my jacket. I had fair amount of difficulty clapping with two infected fingers on right my hand that were the result of a rusty brake job performed several days earlier. The end of each song left me clapping with the heel of my hand, pinkie and ring finger, in what I imagined would appear to the eleven other people present as disapproving applause.

One storyteller background tale of note from M.a.r.k. regarded a day on his horse farm when he was giving 'one of' the homosexual horse occupants a tug job. Said job apparently resulted in a kick from the horse due to his college ring catching on a ‘boo boo’ the horses member was apparently afflicted with. The removal of what I imagine must have been a scab lead to what M.a.r.k. claimed was a six year coma. Said time unconscious, he quipped, only resulted in one song being written and for some reason chronicled the life of the sun.

(Don’t forget the tale was told in his Macho Man Randy Savage voice.)

Lacking the ability to understand a majority of the lyrics, M.a.r.k.'s interjection between songs; explaining the music’s seemingly faux beginnings, was what stole the show. Not to discount his accomplished guitar playing, it was just something I tried to let fade to the aether, as it was obvious the focus should have been the subject matter of the songs for their satirical value. Unfortunately, I just couldn’t gleam it.

Personally, I thoroughly appreciated his ability to switch rhythm patterns and genre veins of music all within one song as verses rolled along. I was reminded of the idea of chicken fried steak for some reason. The song he utilized this method most effectively on was purported to be inspired by a neighbor installing a Jacuzzi.
While the lyric "There's a vagina in my mind it's as deep as a cave," didn’t seem like the most well thought out simile, it was one of the only ones I was able to hear and write down.

Mantra Fear:

"Sound check. Hi, Hello, Hi. Moooons Pubis," Phil announced before thanking each of the other Bands present; the questionable definition of M.a.r.k. as a band not withstanding.

Mantra’s Overdriven guitar and heavy drum instrumentals drop in and finish their first piece. Samples of Phil scream-moaning play several times in the moments of space between songs. The silent accepting or rejecting of the moans leads M.a.r.k. to quip in his Macho man voice "No problem."

"Was that M.a.r.k.," Chris asks softly as he hits a chord to carry to the next song.

"Get it together, pick up the pieces," M.a.r.k. pitches from the Comfort Zone table after Phil asked the audience at the conclusion of the next piece if they noticed he screwed up the last part of the song. Somehow several verbally agree they noticed.

"Ennnglish," Phil's sampler drones in a voice similar to the deeper notes of Paul Rueben’s performance as Max in ‘The Flight of the Navigator.’ "Mooootheeeer... Fuuucker." to the Comfort Zone table's seeming delight and funny bone.

"Alrighhhhht, yeahhhh. Ahhhh, I'm tiiired. What's next," Phil's deep Max voice added after the next heavy driven instrumental.

Two guys from the Comfort Zone table walk up to the foot of the stage where Chris is playing with beers in their hands, Between where they stand; obscuring part of the stage, and the offset PA speaker my appreciation for symmetry and etiquette is at a dire straights. I know they aren't up there because they can't hear, the place is too small and there are only twelve of us here to soak up the sound.

"Alright, alright," Phil says after the next high powered Piece of music. "It's Friday night."

“It's Thursday, right,” Someone asks M.a.r.k. At the Comfort Zone table
"It's the new Friday" he replies.

One of the guys that stood at the foot of the stage sits down to say something to a girl sitting several feet behind where he stood at the foot of the stage. She responds and he returns to the foot of the stage. Another guy immediately takes occupancy of the chair and puts his hand on her back.

The music plays on, I return my hand to my can of Guinness and smile, wondering when the performance will be over, gazing in M.a.r.k.'s position and upon a better illuminated look, try to decide if the plastic novelty mask still on his brow is a tiny zebra or a mouse with zebra markings. The tiny ears make it hard to assume the artistic liberty of the mask maker. Zebras have long donkey like ears right?

"Choice," M.a.r.k. says as Phil breaths slowly into his sampler.

"Choice," several others at the Comfort Zone table also say.

The girl puts her arm around the guy that sat down. She must be with him. I wouldn't have seen that. Well, maybe they're brother and sister. Oh, no. There's a kiss. Wait, maybe he's trying to talk to her. It is loud in here. Brothers and sisters kiss... in public... sometimes.

The guy that vacated the seat to stand at the stage now sits on a speaker and the other troll looking guy goes to the bar and returns to his place again. Chris tells me after the set he "doesn't like being anti-social." I ask what he means and he refers to not knowing what to do with the two guys that were standing at the foot of the stage.

‘Well, I don't imagine they are expecting you to carry on a conversation while you play,’ I think to say.

"Some Ginkgo Biloba," M.a.r.k. suggests to Phil from across the table and stage after Phil admits he screwed up the drums on the last song too.

Several minutes go by waiting for Comfort zone to get their levels right. It turns out the guitarist is the Brother/Boyfriend. He is yelling into the microphone, again I can't understand the bemoaned lyrics.

M.a.r.k. seems to dig the sound if his pseudo-seizure head banging is any indication. The girls at the Comfort zone table arch their backs. Yelling must be their thing. Brother/boyfriend slaps the microphone on a stand that juts out and angles towards him. The Microphone moves around on a its seeming swivel. The vibration from the bass drum begins moving a tall orange aluminum can towards the toe of the stage. I watch, hoping it will fall. Brother/Boyfriend picks it up between their second minute and a half song and takes a drink and sets it down about a foot from the toe, to my eternal chagrin. I notice the microphone is moving away from him again, just like the can. I find that comical.

Brother/Boyfriend mentions the microphone moving during a song break.
I can't seem to notice anything no one else sees.

"Maybe your mom's too loud." M.a.r.k. suggests.

My Meisner training tells me Brother/Boyfriend doesn't like M.a.r.k.’s quandary.

"Oh, You guys have sponsorship too," M.a.r.k. asks, referring to the earlier comment that Sears paid for 65% of his airfare; from Greece Witherspoon- or would that be more aptly put Witherspoon, Greece?

"That song was meant to have a longer guitar part," Brother/Boyfriend admits.

"You're alienating your crowd, man," M.a.r.k. tells him.

"Fuck," B/B retorts into the microphone as he begins to move behind the awkwardly placed PA speaker.

The next song is the seeming length of all the others combine. So... Three and a half minutes?

His can of beverage gets no closer to the toe of the stage the more he continues to pick it up. He lets us know we apparently just heard side A of the tape they will be releasing very soon, "Like in a year or so," B/B says, before hopping into another yelling croon that lasts about forty six seconds, Post-Neo-Pop-Punk has nothing on the neutron songs Comfort zone is pumping out.

"Thank you," B/B says, yet again, in between another Neutron short.

"You're welcome," I say to a chortle from Chris.

"We have like another 35 songs to play," B/B says.

"It's alright," I say to Chris, "It should only take about another five minutes."

Comfort Zone's song advances on. B/B’s crooning moan runs all together, I still can't comprehend any linguistic lyrics.

I want for the sprinklers to begin spraying.

"Alright we have like 31 more songs," B/B says.

We had apparently just heard four of them.

"I the way you guys count," M.a.r.k. says.

"You guys like Rush," B/B asks several times.

"That guy's my cousin," M.a.r.k. says as B/B tells a neutron story about owning Rush tape.

I head to the bathroom, my can of Guinness finally finished. My nose picks up on everything tonight as my ears begin to deafen with ringing. Every cubic foot and quadrant of the Analog seems to have either a greasy food smell that should be tempting, or an offensive bad breath or body smell from those; I assume, are often yards away. I almost feel relief at the strong scent of the bathroom urine cakes as it’s the only one and surprisingly not offensive. Comfort zone's volume is also finally where I find it... comfortable, though I’m still convinced there aren't any lyrics just verbal sounds relayed as yells; none of which seem to stray into his falsetto or the bassy side of his timbre.

"We'll play one more," B/B says as I return and sit in the back booth area. "Leave you guys feeling good."

"Kravitz," M.a.r.k. retorts.

"Crackers," B/B asks.

"Kravitz," M.a.r.k. reiterates in a voice still as Macho Man crossed with Macho Man as when he started with his first song about an anus and having cheese covered lips.