Ponchos from Peru
Late, late had to fill up the ice trays before I went, and now it's past 5. Tired and spent look at The Soapbox. The toll of too many zinesters and indie rockers and general mayhem starters for too many days. One place can only handle so many squelching amps, spotty beards and faux-ironic comments before collapsing on its own weight. Paid my dollar, hit the zine table. Only one real zine, but are $5 Hot and Ready Pizza coupons sardonic satire? Behind the bar is a member of the aforementioned spotty-beard group, a holdover, a refugee, a new recruit for behind the bar, who knows? "Newcastle." Left a fifty cent tip--more than 10 percent.
Sound, sound from a MOOG-MIDI-MYSTERY Machine. White vest, white pants like a highschooler lost on his way to prom, Pink Kodiak via Savannah. Beard more than spotty, not quite full. "We" this and "we" that, though only one. A misunderstanding of pronouns or so the show goes. Thumped bass strings to more than nothing--but only background beats, blips, flips and flops for those that don't understand the blood, sweat and carpal tunnel into figuring those electro-blobs out. A song about Alec Baldwin. A song about bringing sexy back. Some hope, some dreams in the boppin' electronic histrionics. But not much given by the crowd to solidify those hopes and dreams either. "Dancers? Anyone to dance?" he asks. No dancers could be found, only sullen couch sitters.
Pink Kodiak
Scramble, scramble between sets. Scramble, scramble on the iPod with words like "iolite" and "foin." The uploading, the downloading. On-stage, off-stage, upstairs to see documentaries. No documentaries. More couches prepared for a possible documentary. A documentary of arranged couches. No zines. No nothing.
Scramble, scramble find a seat as bleached-blonde friends come in and spill beer on the pool table felt. Grimace, grimace and guffaw like that has never happened before.
More "hi's" and "hello's," the crowd becomes recognizable and sizable, and people willingly stand near the front. Wilmington's own Ponchos from Peru. Unrecognizable from the last time. Shedded a keyboardist and with her, most of their folk-ish melodic rock. Now go for uber-concentrated quick math rock power trio. A song about corn-syrup. A song about the USSR. An occasional horn, an occasional straight punk song. This is what WE Fest is for: exploration for us and them.
Adam of Ponchos from Peru
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