We all felt it, but it was Phil of the Philters who put it into words.
“They’d rather fight than play.”
That was the night when the Sock Pirates turned on each other for the last time, because their audience turned on them en masse.
The Sock Pirates were the latest ramshackle line-up of a band that we once revered and could not get enough of. It has descended to a tribute band of its former self, a band vainly attempting to stay at a level that wasn’t all that high to begin with.

We saw the S.P.s shoot out of the gate so fast we prophesied only great things. It’s OK that the band stalled. That happens. But a crash was avoidable.

Here’s what happened Thursday. Three fifths of the band was too drunk to play, one-fifth was offended by this and one-fifth let his apathy show. There was more cavorting and cajoling than there was music. Fart jokes, there were.

Sounded like this: Jabberjabberjabberjabberjabber. Thump thump thump. Braaahhhhpppp. Yawn.

Finally, and not soon enough, the audience got into the act. Displeasure was expressed on both sides. The band stopped playing altogether. Worse, nobody felt obliged to ask them to start again.

Thanks for the music, Sock Pirates. No thanks for the other stuff. Let us know if you get it together.

Tonight: The Stony Field Lite tour stop at D’ollaire’s has been postponed due to snow. … The Bullfinch has some kind of open mic. Maybe they should snow that out too. … Hamilton’s has a private party.

The Conkurs fell out of a tree on us. This was one of the bands playing the Harvest Festival/10K Race/Bicycle Freak Day/Picnic in the Park/Scare the Homeless multi-event confusion on the town common last weekend. Moved without warning from their scheduled spot, the band tried to pull a Cosimo Piovasco di Rondo and play from the treetops. Didn’t work. They spent most of their time climbing and adjusting their instuments. They then fell down and broke our crown. So we made a point of seeing them the next night, out of town at the Battery Bar & Drill. There, the Conkurs were right-side-up and gloriously wrong, breaking all the rules of psychedelic garage math. Our new favorite band. We praise them to the skies so they truly understand that we really aren’t planning to sue them. (No matter what Sonny Blitt told them.) Best song: “Spazz Them.” Best dance move: “The Inverted Frog.” Best patter: “We’re out of our tree!”

Tonight: The Wicksons, with faux French-pop poseurs Pomme Grise and solo Ribston Pippin (of the Ribstones)… At Hamilton’s: Main & High (guess the ban on bands with drug references in their names is over; we’re kidding, it’s bunch of roots-rockers in their 60s) plus added nostalgia act Pliny Burrows  and the Honeycrisps… At D’ollaire’s: a metal night of Red Flesh and The Aerlies…

They’ve shut down the Bullfinch. We don’t know why. Or for how long. Every scenester in the state has peered through the windows by now, and noticed that nothing has been moved or taken away inside. It’s just, you know, not open.

Yet it’s there. So there. So very there. The Bullfinch is part of the social consciousness. Even if you don’t appear to partake of its services– the bands, the cocktails, the pinball– you’re in its debt. It adds an ineffable f-ing thing to the community.

They say that there used to be rowdy rock club, a ballroom they called it, on Cheese Street, the old factory district. It’s now a lawyers’ office. You’d never know it was once a club.

We’re just musing. The Bullfinch will be back. Won’t it? Its just that it’s been two days and everyone we’ve called either isn’t home or just doesn’t know.

At Hamilton’s (sob): two tribute bands and a horse… At D’ollaire’s (double sob): an evening with Even Steven…

First, an apology. A little girl has whispered in our ear that we should be sorry we dropped the ball, went home, and left this column lagging. She insists we resume. We think it is because she will have her own band someday and needs the coverage.

In any (guitar) case…

I asked my young friend what kind of band she’d like to see, if she could see any band. “Any band,” she replied. She hasn’t been able to spend much time in clubs, due to an unfortunate age-impairment.

You know how there are songs where, at the end, it changes to more of a rock sound, or soul? If there was a band that sang both rock music and soul or R&B or jazz, that would be the best band in the world.”

We think she’d like  Bear Leader. Their saxophonist, Governor, is schooled in ‘20s jazz riffs, which he substitutes for the standard solo bits you hear in all those old doo-wop songs during the instrumental breaks. Frontpeople Duenna and Khoja bring a world-music feel to the lead vocals, while drummer The Prelector seems to have sprung from some heavy metal netherworld. Bassist “Chalk” Talker does the claw-funk thing, while rhythm guitarist Lec keeps a stable rock base.

We feel our young friend’s need. She wants  a band that jumps around and has fun, but has studied and takes care with history. She has these concerns herself as she prepares to enter the sixth grade next week.

School is in session. Hit the books, and the drums.

Tonight at the Bullfinch: TeachersPayTeachers, NHTA, and a solo set by Abbie Cedarian… Hamilton’s has an early show with Crammer and Schoolmaster (formerly Dry Nurse)…. Dollaire’s features an evening with ‘80s college-rock reprobates Munshi, with opening act Corey Fuse….

By Artie Capshaw

Crewcut guy jumps out of crowd and wallops lead singer mid-song.

A ho-hum situation at hardcore shows, but much more curious when it takes place at a folk acoustic open mic.

Took a few phone calls to crack this malevolent mystery.

Roger Root, turns out, didn’t get his fake surname from the type of folk he plays. And, no surprise, he doesn’t make all his money from playing open mics.

Roger has a day job, and another life his club cronies know little about. “Root” refers to that.

So what is he? A dentist? An organic farmer? A math teacher?

None of the above: Roger’s a plumber, a special kind of plumber, who fashions bespoke tubing hook-ups for folks who want to put newfangled drains and disposals in kitchens which weren’t really designed to handle them.

Roger Root was attacked by a disgruntled client. With a pipe. From a kitchen remodeling that just didn’t work out.

The man—in his 50s, but stronger than the three baristas who tried to stop him—was subdued. And jailed!

Roger’s comment? “I would’ve fixed his kitchen. Sounds like it was just a leak, not a routing problem. But not after he busted in during ‘Loons.”

That’s right. The song was Roger Root’s classically rooted paean to displaced wildlife, “Clear the Loons.”

…before they brain you with the tools of your trade.

Alexander’s Mediation Board and The Young Alans at the Bullfinch. No plumbers in the lot, only smartass college students… By Morse and Against the Storm at Hamilton’s—no plumbers there either, though there are songs ab0ut pipes… Templeton Time and The Honeymoon Hills at D’Ollaire’s, for those nostalgic for when these bands had hits…

By Artie Capshaw

Modern Madcaps on the college charts! Modern Madcaps on the college charts!

The Abbott Mysteries and A&P Gypsies at the Bullfinch, all spightly and shit… 2000 Plus and (somehow skirting the “no drug references in band names” law) Add a Line

at Hamilton’s… weirdo unplugged folk nite at D’ollaire’s with Accordiana and The Acousticons. Any metalhead sleeping on the pavement for tomorrow night’s Frank Race/The Dick Coles show will be nauseated…

By Artie Capshaw

How many gelatin shots can you do?
…while singing?
…a duet?
If your name is Pud Large of The Chocolate Covers, and it was last Friday at the Bullfinch, the answer is five.
The song? “Softie.” The jiggly liquor fixes punctuated the “doo doo doo”s of the chorus.
Next question: How many more songs until the effects of such a public display begin to reveal themselves? By our estimation, two. Unfortunately for all, an opening band hadn’t materialized, so The ChocCos were expected to do an extra-long set, which they were only halfway through.
Did they make it to last call? Barely. Did they maintain the respect and admiration of the crowd? Yes, but only by offering us all gelatin shots of our own so we wouldn’t be jealous.
There were only seven of us there, see. Probably the reason Pud was so loose and sloppy in the first place.
There was a bit of a food fight. Then everybody wobbled home.

The Sheraton Armchairs and The Bannister Backs, an unusually high-end gig at the Bullfinch. The bands were “looking for a comfortable, intimate spot in a dark corner” between stops on massive multi-band supertours… Roy Croft and The Hepplewhites and The Savonarolas, cover bands from an earlier generation, at the cover-band mecca Hamilton’s… The Rohlfs at D’ollaire’s, with Frank, Lloyd & Right opening. Cool booking, but who’ll go with all that wonderment at the Bullfinch?…

By Artie Capshaw

The Fairy Maps’ set got rained out last week—and they were indoors!

So they went outside where it was dry and finished up.

A roofing anomaly at the Roaring Brook Restaurant/gay bar meant that pockets of water had seeped into the ceiling. A torrent was unleashed when bassist Dot Mass jogged a few celing tiles during the band’s sex anthem “Upswing.”

It’s actually more complicated than that, with old pipes and bad insulation also involved. The Fairy Maps are not to blame, the Roaring Brook was quick to tell them. But at the time, it couldn’t have seemed more simple and direct: thrust and wash.

Fortunately for all involved, the seemingly endless stream of yuck which poured from above took the form of a thin drool that didn’t threaten any of the electrical equipment. The band, who were initially dazed but rapidly regained control of their faculties (except their noses—Phew! The stink!) were able to unplug and move their gear before much of a puddle formed.

It was drummer T-Stop who yelled “Bring it outside!” Dot and others thought he simply wanted to pack up and leave early. But when he didn’t stop pounding his trap, they got the idea. “No sound check,” Dot relates regarding the impromptu sidewalk set which lasted another seven songs. “But we knew we were in tune.”

And out of the deluge.

By Artie Capshaw

The Glugggs do things with a rainstick that have to seen to be believed. But only if you’re over 18.

The trio, whose name’s an anagram of all their initials, is barely out of high school themselves, and they sure know what the college crowd wants: Funky bass, heavy metal drums, rangy vocals and simulated sex.

We glugged a few drafts with The Glugggs and learned that they’re an honorary local band who may hail from the grander regional circuit but who crash at a friend’s house here in town for weeks at a time. We can only imagine what goes on in that house.

The Gym Wipes and Revolution Bucket at The Bullfinch, upping this month’s punk ratio and assuring that the club will have to mop the floor… Centerpull and Teflon Lubricating at Hamilton’s, but the Glugggs are so much sexier… MegaRoll Bio and The Degradable Band at D’ollaire’s, doing the nostalgia-tour clean-sweep…

Mar took all “our” money and buried it in the hole.