The Shore Lobsters are that trio which formed to play postgame shindigs at flying disk tournaments in which the band’s members hurled and spun, added a slew of members for a special gig last month.
The line-up included two more guitarists, a keyboardist, two harmonica players, a ukulele player, two tambourine virtuosi and assorted roadies.
As of Tuesday, the band reverted to a threesome. “Musical differences” are being cited for the split.
It was a ruse, actually. The flying disk team had been invited to an international tourney, but couldn’t afford to go. So they strung together a variety of small grants and bequests so they could make their match.
The band was formed under an arts enrichment grant bestowed by the college on the hill’s ethnomusicology department. The institution was fully aware of the impromptu, second-priority nature of the ensemble they were funding, they simply set conditions. The disk tossers all had to attend a special class on music appreciation and three supervised rehearsals. They had to learn a composition by a student composer and perform it at the tournament to an audience of at least 20 people. And they had to submit a group report on their musical voyage. Especially sweet: the college even provided the group’s musical instruments.
All conditions were met, especially the concert one. When the organizers of the Wam Hau Tournament, on a small Caribbean island, caught wind of the intriguing travel fund, they invited the ShoreLobs to perform at the opening ceremonies, before a crowd of thousands. It’s thought to be one of the largest crowds ever to see a live performance of a neo-classical student composition in the history of the college. (When I ran that stat by one of the students, Jean Bluté, he replied “It’s not like they ever invite us to play at the football games.”)
The scheme is unlikely to be epeated, but the band’s performance of “Disk Variations” has been recorded for posterity. While none of the new members wanted to officially join the musical wing of the team—only in the rarefied sport of disk-tossing could membership in a jam-rock band be considered “too much work”—it’ll be hard to stop them jumping up at post-game jams now that they know a few pan-flute licks.
Tonight: Pizzings and Tumblefun (not as fun as they sound) at the Bullfinch… The Cranberry Building and The Fieldstons at Hamilton’s, playing the tunes you know so well… D’ollaire’s is dark. The date was being held for some former superstar, who still apparently likes to screw over clubs at the last minute…

You don’t notice the cliques forming at the Bullfinch unless it’s a very busy night or a very quiet night.
On a crowded evening the groups clump off like sovereign states in a republic—they’re all there for the same thing, but they identify in separate sections and cultures.
There are the college cool kids, the street youth., the undergrounders, the “professionals” from bands and studios and record shops, and the shy ones by the door who aren’t sure they’re gonna stay.
On quiet nights, when the band’s not that good and everybody’s there to drink, every table in the Finch could be available and only one will be occupied to overflowing. On those nights, the crowd divides thus: those who know each other and those who don’t. And if those who don’t have the price of a pitcher and are willing to share, then they’re allowed to switch tables with alacrity.
On Friday, a conceptual dance night, half the tables in the club were removed at the request of the band—a hotshot act from a big city. The effect was doubly disorienting. You didn’t know who to hang with, there were less places in which to do it once you’d figured out the “who” part.
What confounded the most was the realization that dancing matters to our little crowd. It’s the great divider. Many us grew up despising dance clubs and everything they stood for. We might bounce vertically, or trot clockwise with elbows akimbo, but we felt that we were safely among fellow disestablishment terpsichoreans (those who are against the practice of dancing). So even an ironic performance-art oriented dance event was polarizing.
Someone we thought we knew, really knew, did some moves—as a joke, she swears—and we couldn’t contain our disbelief. A married couple did a swingdance routine they say they learned in birthing class. And the folks whom we’d swear must have insisted on attending every school dance and prom from sixth grade onwards? They sat on their hands.
Dance stance. Each to their own revolution.

Tonight: The Wonder Books, power pop that’s too good for us, at the Bullfinch… Tanglewood at Hamilton’s, with a horn section… An Evening with The Hawthornes at D’Ollaire’s. Short evening…