The Back of the Heads, clearly, had a concept already firmly in place when they named their band. Facing away from the crowd while playing is a phenomenon we’ve documented here numerous times. Thinking ahead, and basically caring for the needs of the audience, sets BotH apart.
“We’re ugly,” suggest singer Franque. “Plus we’re video geeks and computer programmers. So we do projections and videos.”
BotH shows are big events at the campus on the hill. So much so that it brings up a whole other “back of the heads” issue.
“They’re getting too crowded,” Franque sighs. “People can’t see. We’ve had to start playing auditoriums, or classrooms with a lot of chairs.”
Sad, he says, since Back of the Heads’ music is danceable and frantic, a mechanical-beated fuzz-noise melange that benefits from a light show—as long as the light show doesn’t take over.
Franque is stymied by the paradox. “We meant to liven things up, and we’re deadening them.” This should not be a problem, however, at the Bullfinch Thursday. There, the projections will be high up on the walls over the bar, and the videos plugged into the TVs on the walls.
“One day,” Franque, “we’ll get the balance right. It’d be a shame to ditch the band and just make movies.”

Tonight: Folk slumberthon at the Bullfinch with The New World’s First Fashion Victim, Shy Turtle With a Soft Spot and Sounds from the Mountains—all of which are solo acts. The longer the name of your act, it seems, the fewer people are likely to be in it… The Original Transformer and Awesome Forces, hard rock with heroic overtones, at Hamilton’s… An Evening With Green Sea Urchins at D’Ollaire’s… Crowned Madonnas, yes, Crowned Madonnas, at a basement show we can’t tell you anything about…

The Risings fell. Right off the stage at Hamilton’s Thursday night.

Some readers think we’re obsessed with falling-off-the-stage stories. But they’re more common than you think, and if you mention one, you’re suddenly being told about a dozen others. And they’re all great stories. The scuffle among the gods last week faded into memory when The Risings (aka the extended Reisling family from the suburbs) swept into a full-band kickline and swept each other off the platform.

Nothing injured but pride. Lots of pride. Band patriarch Sal Riesling insisted that the act do the kick again, then again. Painful to watch, more painful than actually getting kicked. The band might have been expecting some sort of ovation, like when a circus act misses the trapeze somersaults twice and then invariably connects the third time. Instead, crickets. Worse, active rebuke. “Stop kicking!,” someone yelled.

Tonight: Below the Fold and Engine 31 at the Bullfinch… GTTP at Hamilton’s (wordy rapping)… The Advos at D’Ollaire’s with no original members…