If there’s one thing I hate about being a music writer, itap my undying ability to dupe myself into believing a band or performer will somehow change the next time I see them, and that I’ll be able to prove that to a reader or two.
This, despite my oft-repeated, much-less-than-satisfying (to put it lightly) live experiences with said band. Invariably, itap a function of finding solace in this or that band’s recorded material, and eventually choosing to forget the last time I saw them — to my own detriment.
— under the dictatorship of the inimitable Anton Newcombe — is a perfect example of this function, and of my curse.
Last Sunday nightap show at the was yet another (and for me, the fourth) disappointing — if not downright pathetic — display of the Massacre’s inability to both connect with their audience (as if Newcombe cares at all) and to live up to the promise of Newcombe’s recorded genius (and I say “his recorded genius” because Newcombe has been the single consistent member of the band over a history that spans 20 years and over 40 members — maybe more aptly referred to as “casualties”).
The hour-plus set included a wide, well-selected swath of the band’s history in songs, starting with the classic “Let Me Stand Next to Your Flower,” through “Who?,” “Servo,” “That Girl Suicide,” “Sue” and just about every other “Tepid Peppermint” cameo. The problem was that none of them successfully grabbed us, or fulfilled their recorded potential.
If Newcombe could have been bothered to acknowledge his audience — this one an impressive, more than three-quarters-full house — even once during the show it might have thawed some of the permafrost. As it was, the most endearing member onstage was the bright and impressively sideburned percussionist (read: tambourine man) Joel Gion — the only band member who spoke to the audience at all, and even his one-way conversation was sparse, at best.
Pretty shameful for a band that sported no less than five guitarists — and sometimes six when keyboardist Rob Campanella took up an axe — and a solid rhythm section in bassist Will Carruthers and drummer Dan Allaire, besides Gion. Thatap a total of nine musicians, and quite a crowded stage.
And yet, they all portrayed a feeling of merely going through motions. They rarely spoke to each other, let alone the fans, and mailed in a technically fine, but emotionally void and decidedly un-fun performance.
Word to the wise (and also to me, gullible numbskull that I obviously am): The BJM is never going to fulfill the potential they portray on their records. And at $22 a ticket, you’re going to be much better served by buying a hard copy than buying a ticket to see them live.
Trust me. Like I pointed out, I’ve done the latter more than twice.
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Billy Thieme is a Denver-based writer, an old-school punk and a huge follower of Denver’s vibrant local music scene. Follow Billy’s explorations at , and his giglist at .
Joe McCabe is a Denver photographer and a regular contributor to Reverb. Check out his .
