Ryan Bjornstad of Portland’s Starf*cker knows well the pleasures of an irresistable melody. Photos by .
By the time the show at the rolled around on Saturday, I had forgotten entirely what they sounded like. And when a band takes to the stage wearing mop-tops, oversized ’80s eyewear and holey, neon t-shirts, my brain usually shuts off and goes on autopilot. Luckily, I am happy to report that my little mind cruise went better than expected.
Oddly enough, it was the surge protector that caught my attention. I gazed at it for a while as Starf*cker set up, adding more and more plugs until all those little “O!” faces were covered. My mind began to entertain horrible fantasies of a Great White kind of evening, beginning first with a few stray sparks. Then, suddenly, the synth would erupt in a ball of fire, and everyone in front would screech and clutch each other and look for a half-drunk pint with which to douse the blaze. Such hilarity did not ensue, but the (dare I venture?) classic pop that broke forth with the first song snapped me out of my cynical daydream.
Such is the power of pop. The real stuff. Few people are immune to it. The hooks, the sparkling production value, the tie-in sleeping bags and trading cards. Argue if you must, especially if you were born after 1988, but the late ’90s are mostly disqualified. I must have heard “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” 673 times in my life, but that glittering synth intro gets me every time. I’m not certain that Starf*cker is destined for their own line of dolls, but the feeling is still there. It took me very much by surprise.
As did their between-song juggling act. I guess when you have two drum kits, a cassette player, a turntable, a hollow-body Epiphone, a Fender bass, keyboards, synth, plastic maracas, pedals and a set list that never seems to use the same equipment twice in a row, your motto is, “Jesus gawd, man, hurry!!!” With all that electrical interference, one might expect cold, bleeping loops and other such Kraftwerkian mechanations. In defiance of such observations, the music was as warm and full as modern electronic music can allow.
I was enjoying myself so mindlessly at one point that an evil feeling of self-consciousness crept up my shoulders — the very same kind that creeps when I fight back tears at the movies. Come to your senses, man! I thought. It’s just POP. And although it’s sweet, boppy and girl-next-door appealing, it’s also a bit formulaic and unchanging. After a while, the tunes began to bleed together, and the loud R2-D2 chattering couldn’t mask the onstage transition rush.
Remember that “Simpsons” when Homer turns up the radio to cover his fart? Despite these kernels of skepticism — sized appropriately to keep me sensible — I felt a violent sting of annoyance when a drunk teenage girl blurted, “They SUCK!” from a head or two behind me. No, they don’t. That was kind of…. mean and unnecessary. (Note to Hi-Dive: Skinny, awkward, giggly girls need an extra ID screening.) That tears it, I thought. I wasn’t in love before, but if I feel the urgent need to defend a band, it’s usually a sign that they’re A-OK.
According to vocalist Ryan Bjornstad, the Hi-Dive show was the third of their very first tour. What a nice honor. Pop group Yahweh must have extended his blessing to Denver. I wish he’d do it more often, considering my irksome jones for the stuff. If you’re looking for the same kind of “Wheeeeee!” you get from an Of Montreal record and you’re willing to compromise on your expectations, try and catch Starf*cker before they retreat to Portland.
Alex Edgeworth is a Denver-based writer and regular Reverb contributor.
is a Denver-based freelance photographer and regular Reverb contributor.
