New Age Hillbilly / Motel Bible / Bread Machine / Human Host - live at Jeff the Pigeon, March 11th 2006

For me to consider writing about a live show, I can't help but wonder what purpose this would serve the reader, as previous Fresh Patina topics are all obtainable, physical documents. Live performances are a moment in time, one that you either experienced or didn't; no video footage or Minidisc recording (assuming either exist) can truly capture the essence of being inside a crusty, stageless venue, standing a few feet from the performer. Sure, a quick live review can let you know who's setting the stage on fire, or what vocalist screamed down his bassist in a narcissistic fit, or just how badly attended Meatloaf's farewell concert was in your town, but the experience itself is over. With that in mind, I feel confident that reviewing last week's gig at Jeff the Pigeon is worthwhile, as a Jeff the Pigeon event is less about the performing acts themselves, and the specific show, as it is the unique culture of violent freedom that has spawned in this most unlikely place and time.

Nestled in a particularly uninviting low-rent warehouse in Allentown, PA (an easily missed, economically crumbling city poking out of the otherwise affluent Lehigh Valley suburban wet dream, roughly an hour's drive from both New York City and Philadelphia), Jeff the Pigeon's glamorous name might have one envisioning more than the dust-covered warehouse space it actually is. You enter through the loading dock, wander past a few old spools of industrial thread, turn right, then left, and you're in the Pigeon, a space slightly larger than your average living room and haunted by the ghosts of 1,000 cigarettes. I could go on and romanticize Jeff the Pigeon's graffiti-riddled walls and piles of ancient trash to no end, but I've got a show to review.

So the opener, New Age Hillbilly, is a friendly enough fellow from the outskirts of Baltimore. The crowd, a mixture of teenagers, bitter adults, and various human ephemera, stood or sat in place, clearly non-plussed by the Hillbilly's musical stylings. Playing solo guitar, he played songs that recalled the worst of the mid 90's pop-punk explosion, sans rhythm, melody or backing band, as well as a series of embarrassingly uninspired noise wanks. I can't recall which style left me less interested. I can only assume that New Age Hillbilly gets by on endearment, that he can somehow come across as a loveable loser, instead of a regular one. The tiniest inspiration one could find in the Hillbilly could come from the fairly astonishing fact that someone can perform so obviously poorly, yet continue forward. That said, I still managed to hurl a few "boo"s his way between songs, impatient for the fun that Jeff the Pigeon consistently delivers.

Following the forgettable first act, local band Motel Bible performed. Theirs was a mix of tech-grind and the more traditional Gravity Records-era screamo, two styles that lend themselves to blending. Visually nervous (and notoriously straight-edge), two of the members were pelted with taunts and half-empty Miller Lites from the crowd, meant more as stamp of satisfaction than an insult. Lock yourself in a dog pound, and expect to get barked at; it was almost as if the more timid members of the band expected the Pigeon to be rough, but not this rough. Meanwhile, the rest of the band were soaking it in like the happiest frat-house pledges. They competently finished their set, holding everyone's attention and fulfilling expectations. Taking it up as my Jeff the Pigeon duty, I put a guitar cable in a full bottle of Pabst, watching the chemical reaction fizz until a 17 year-old scooped it up and sloshed it down.

Bread Machine took the stage next, and provided the baking soda to the Pigeon's vinegar. Perhaps the first local band to be formed solely under the influence of Jeff the Pigeon (and the confrontational noise it has housed over the years), Bread Machine instantly kicked into their youthful, suburban take on Magik Markers wig-flipping and Air Conditioning basement broil. No sooner are they crooning out a stubbly mass of noise, then the crowd is in full-on fight or flight mode: cartons of hand-made confetti are dumped on the band, stink bombs silently explode, upper extremities limply flail from one person to the next. Perhaps the alcohol level finally reached the breaking point, or Bread Machine simply had it coming, but there wasn't a single member of the four-piece who remained safe or dry. Amps were wobbling from unintentional (and intentional) contact, and the drumset was slowly being submerged with dirty carpet and old boxes. Forcing Bread Machine to either elevate things to the next level, or pack it up, a few showgoers picked up the old leather couch and floated it directly into the drumset. This pretty much signalled the end of their rhythm, and rightfully so, but their set still flickered for another five minutes or so, complete with various dogpiles and shirtless wrangling. To simply survive a fight like this, Bread Machine are forever victorious.

Once the dust settled, the crowd was entertained by the usual shenanigans and impromptu arm-wrestling matches while Human Host put together their meager set-up. Sometimes performing as a full band, sometimes supported only by a Discman, tonight's Human Host featured percussion, keyboards and guitar to supplement singer Mike Apichella's incensed yowling. Things started off mellow, with the crowd softly rocking to the beat and nursing their wounds. It wasn't long, however, before an especially riled crowd member (who previously spray-painted his own face red) convinced another showgoer to lay down and catch a blast of paint as well. It was a humorous, confounding scene, especially when accompanied by the Human Host soundtrack. Soon enough, two faces are painted, eyes are winced in pain, drawers are dropped, and cheeks are spanked. Not for the first time in the Pigeon's history, the crowd's antics are out performing the band. Human Host were up to the challenge, however, as they quickly switched over to their pre-recorded, danceable material, of which the crowd was familiar. That was the spark needed to bring the rest of the crowd into a full ruckus; practically every audience member was swinging something or someone over his or her head, falling into a broken couch or slugging wine like Gatorade. Speaking of wine, it wasn't long before a bottle hit the cement floor, with people digging into the broken glass as if it were bubble wrap. Soon enough, everyone's got some sort of blood or paint on their shirt, and Human Host are raising the bar, rolling drums like Donkey Kong rolls barrels, shouting without microphones and occasionally ducking for cover. And like a lucid dream, the set is over. People file out and into their cars, at least one trip to the Emergency Room takes place, and Human Host admits defeat.