50 Awesome Snippets from Band Reviews by Journalism Students

Reviews of live band performances by journalism students are an endless source of entertainment for me. 

Lincoln Exposed, our city's winter local music festival, produced the motherlode of highly entertaining student reviews from the university newspaper, The Daily Nebraskan. The majority of the reviews are generally well-written and mostly cohesive, considering a lot of these kids are just a couple of years out of high school and don't have tons of experience writing OR seeing live music. 

But what these young, aspiring journalists lack in experience (and sometimes grammar skills,) they make up for in spades with unintentionally hilarious writing. 

As a service to my musical and literary readers, because I know you appreciate these kinds of things, I have compiled here 50 of the most entertaining snippets from student reviews of Lincoln Exposed bands. To break up the reading a bit, I've kind of categorized them, but don't let that pigeonhole the experience for you. Some of these are priceless on many fronts.

I'm posting this in the spirit of pure joy. I appreciate the great coverage of local music that the Daily Nebraskan and other publications work hard to provide for our thriving local music scene. I've removed bylines and band names (except for one, because the band name is about all the kid wrote about.) 

So without further ado or disclaimers, I now present to you... 

50 Awesome Snippets from Band Reviews by Journalism Students

1. Things that could probably go without saying:

"To [this band], Lincoln Exposed is 'like a big music festival for local music fans.'" 

"The members were sharply dressed, each with their own suit and hat."

"[The drummer] stayed steady for the group on the drums, stringing the band’s pieces together with his persistent beat."

"[He] was especially impressive on the electric guitar, which added that extra layer of oomph."

"Both before and in between songs, the silence was disturbed only by whispers from the three musicians on stage and brief claps in between each song."

"The singer could carry a tune or pull off the speak-sing that sometimes crawls its way into rock."

"Instead, the musicians took it upon themselves to build upon each other, and climax into a fever of sounds."

"The lead guitarist’s solos were often and consistent; he made solos that fit the different passing songs."

"He danced and produced just the right amount of hand motions to emphasize their lyrics."

"No technical booboos occurred as players strummed guitar strings to make sweet-sounding noises."

2. Neither here nor there: Vague as an artform

"With every guitar strum emphasized and every word sung with that recognizable drawl, the members helped bring their audience to a certain level of enjoyment."

"Of course, the band still dropped its musical payload adequately." 

3. How to use a lot of words to describe very little

"The hints of modern sound seemed to almost beg for more but stuck with its predetermined motive."

"However, when it came to transitions between the loud and soft parts and transitions between all of the instruments playing to just guitar or vocals, it got rough."

"Even if someone were to argue that some of the songs sound very similar or that the volume prevents any of the lyrics from being heard, they would simply be run over by the unforgiving music, along with a skeleton-drawn chariot."

“'Flamboyant' would not be the right term, since the band does not use mellow-dramatic songs or any bubble machines. 'Overbearing' makes it seem as if the band overextended its welcome, which it did not, for the most part."

"Even without huge blaring screams or newfangled hybrids of punk rock and elementary-school music, [the bluegrass band] toasted the place and made an impact of wholeness." 

"Watching [him] play guitar was an act of controlled violence that I haven’t heard in a while. The strangled sounds were strangled and wild with a touch of musical mastery."

"The groaning bass along with the shared lyrics and overall exceptional core instrumental entourage helped end the night in a climactic and musically satisfying way."

4. Yeah, but what were they WEARING?

"The audience at Duffy’s Tavern started to build a proper concert-going crowd to the driving, swirling sound of guitars played by the brothers, both of whom were wearing flannel shirts."

"Behind the visage of long flapping hair and black t-shirts, and in one case a pair of camouflaged cargo pants, lies some serious talent."

"[He] headbanged his vintage wash hat right off. Some things rock, other things roll and baseball caps can’t seem to handle the level of punk these boys produced."

"[They were] cool and collected in denim on the Bourbon stage Friday night... The band chased their songs with beer as [they] took the stage in sunglasses and jeans...The band’s nonchalant image was projected through their outfits as they made their way through their setlist." 

5. When Similes and Metaphors Attack

"[The song] wrapped around the room and had a pulse all its own. It swelled in fury but dipped down low into the ether of somber glory."

"[This band] is the epitome of real life guitar hero with short-hair headbanging, a dimpled bassist and an unreturned greeting from the crowd."

"The third song started like a plea-full prayer but when the rest of the band jumped in it was like hellfire knocking on heaven’s door with the slap of the drum singing 'Momma I’m coming home.'"

"...and as the night went on they effortlessly rose up the corporate ladder despite obstacles that doubled as encouragement."

"This was the re-christening moment for the audience and the pounding of feet drowned out the wicked hooves of all distractions."

"He slaps the bass like, well, a classy man with a long beard and a business casual jacket."

"Duffy’s is a cavern - a dark, maze that smells like it bathes in beer and shampoos with whiskey." (Ed. note: Duffy's is neither cavernous nor maze-like. It's also not very dark.)

"Sanity comes from the steady pounding of the kick-drum...It’s like the beating of a heart. It’s like the open road. It’s the gentle knocking on the sweetly slumbering soul."

"They created an atmosphere reminiscent of a senior citizen dance hall: slow, warm and far away from the rest of the stuff in life that’s complicated and unnecessary." (This one is about my band!)

"The overall giddiness and enjoyment that the band members expressed as they played also spread joy to the listeners like a contagious virus."

"Metal makes up nearly everything. It provides structure to tall skyscrapers and weird-looking sculptures that only a few 'chosen' individuals are able to understand. It helps transport necessities like water, electricity and internet porn when it is built into pipes, wires and crusty computers. Humans need to even eat small amounts of metal for sustained life, or face large amounts for imminent death. Same goes for a bit of death metal."

6. Hyperbolic gems

"And their necks somehow rotated with propeller-like velocity."

"The floor was a mosaic of everything everyone trekked in throughout the night."

7. Cheer up and lament!

"Today, the band has since become a five-member team that implements all the instruments, songs and the spirit, needed to cheer up any listener with some time to relax, sit back, have a beer, and lament about life and its simplicities a bit." 


8. Get these kids a publisher! Or, in some cases, please don't!

"A shirtless man, dancing to the heavy metal, turns around to a voice screaming his name. His adversary stands five yards away, looking at the shirtless man with unmistakable contempt and possessed desire in his eye. The two charge each other like two bull moose in the wild. Beers drop. Glass shatters. Haymakers are thrown. This whole ordeal distracts the rest of the bar, but [the band] has been playing throughout this entire incident without missing a key." 

"The disco lights start spinning about four songs into the set and every turtleneck-wearing woman let the beat get the best of her. They all start getting warm the way [the band] advised...A drunken gentleman, sporting an ill-fitting excuse of a beanie, throws the pointer finger gun one too many times. The turtleneck dance circle quickly weeds him out, and he’s back to his corner, shooting bullseyes in the sky."

"Unfortunately, the slamming guitars started to completely annihilate this reviewer’s mind and conscious while he listened unprepared. Whether this muffling is by self-imagined conjured demons or just the deep rumbling of the Flying-V-like guitars and the vocals emanating from [the singer's] mouth is debatable. Regardless, it is absolutely awesome, yet a little inconvenient since cerebral activity for words is becoming a slog through dark sands of darkness and skulls."

"There were no contrived bits of odd chords or wallowing moments of self-pity or reflection. The band chews that notion up and spits it up, just to eat it again with its uncompromising yet not overly forced or pretentious style. With its constant barrage of chords and drum beats, the band completely dominated the bar with a metaphysical fire and, likely, a literal fire conjured by either the guitarists’ epic otherworldly playing or from the friction built up as he incessantly strummed."

9. How to unwittingly expose your own biases

"[This band] has a heavily synthesized, punchy charm, relying heavily on the mom’s-basement-keyboard styling of [the keyboardist.]"

"Bearded onlookers seated at the bar gazed on the stage judgmentally."

"[This band] definitely proved that bluegrass, or at least its rendition, was not just some 'backwoods country tune' expected to appear only in places where people cling to the past and smoke tobacco through pipes."

"A few men clad in drug-rug sweatshirts were spinning near the stage, eyes hazy and blank. Arms were thrust into the air and heads were thrown back, letting out calls of obvious victory. [This] is the kind of band that makes people want to take their shirts off in record-breaking cold weather, wave their wrists clad in Livestrong bracelets like they just don’t care and mosh with blonde prima donnas and boys that prefer euphoria to reality."

"The bluegrass played by [this band] seemed to possess a certain level of just plain goodness that caused people to happily dance and sing along to the lyrics. So much so, in fact, that not very many people even looked remotely embarrassed."

"Don’t let the exterior of the trio fool you, despite the older age of the drummer and the fur trapper hat worn by the bass player, the band has no problem playing loud and fast."

10. So...which was it?

"This was listening music, or staring-disaffectedly-at-your-phone party material."

11. And then there's this kid: Someone, please, sexually inspire him with sweet nothings already!

A dirty talker, or a flirtatious dude or dudette, uses sexually-explicit words in order to arouse their partner. Dirty Talker also happens to be the name of an alternative rock band that offers music rather than the graphic and stimulating language that everyone secretly desires...

Yet, the band failed to justify its name by speaking half in methodical grunts and half in whispers of hot lust. The members had the potential, what with their totally in-sync singing, advanced music skills and their babe-magnet mustaches and other facial hair, however, as far as one could tell, no one in the audience felt sexually charged or even interested. 

While the average band of shaved men cannot pull off the sensual and pleasing comment, the fact that the band named itself Dirty Talker makes any inexperienced listener believe that the band must be filled with men capable of setting ablaze desiring loins. 

Their musical talents and song selection made "Dirty Talker" capable candidates for any adoring females without filthy language. Yet, it was baffling that the band named itself Dirty Talker without ever proving that it deserved that name by speaking in the tongue of lovemaking. 

So, with all this in mind, Dirty Talker has both gained and lost ground. As a musical ensemble that plays great and emotionally driving, yet not all that sexy, music, it has become a worthy band for Lincoln, let alone the conclusion of Lincoln Exposed 2014. Yet, the band never seemed to contain actual dirty talkers despite its name, thus making the realization a disappointment to those who wished to be sexually inspired by sweet nothings.

Ten Totally Irrelevant Rules I Live By

I have all kinds of little obsessive habits and steadfast rules that I always follow. I'm trying hard to be aware of what these are, and to break them every so often just to help me embrace flexibility, something I'm kind of working on lately. Some of my rules and habits may border on obsessive compulsive behavior, or they may be perfectly normal. I don't know, because I've never had this conversation with anyone. They're just things I do without thinking, like breathing air or scratching my mosquito bites until they bleed.

Here are my top ten most stubborn rules that, when broken, leave me feeling a little vulnerable and itchy.

1. I must always calculate drive time. 

When I pull out of the alley behind our house, I look at the clock so I can time the drive to my destination. It's six minutes to my sister's house, nine to Ruby's daycare, 16 to my parents' house, six to Gerardo's school, and three to Mila's job. If the clock changes between the time I reach the end of the alley, I use the new time.

2. I require perpetual refreshment...

I must always have something to drink at hand. This winter, it's hot mint green tea with exactly a tablespoon of honey. Last summer, it was iced sun tea. Whatever it is, it has to be in my tall, skinny stainless steel travel cup with the long, contoured handle.

3. ...in the right receptacle.

All cups and glasses I drink from must feel good in my hands. I go out of my way to avoid Scooters only because their coffee cups are so damn fat. I can't stand fat cups, even those that have handles. I always order a Venti at Starbucks because those cups are skinnier than the Grande cups. My ceramic coffee cups have to be tall and skinny too, with slightly sloping (but not curved) sides and a long, sloped handle through which all four of my fingers will comfortably fit. I cannot abide wine glasses, which don't feel at all good in my hands. I drink my wine out of highball or juice glasses or small jelly jars.

4. There is a right order of events in the shower, and there is a wrong order of events in the shower.

The right order of events is as follows: Apply shampoo, rinse shampoo, apply conditioner, scrub the front of the body from the shoulders to the toes, scrub the back of the body from the heels to the nape of the neck, shave legs, rinse conditioner while shaving armpits, wash face, pumice feet, rinse hair one last time.

5. The proper writing utensil is essential.

I will spend a half hour searching for the right pen rather than use any old cheap ballpoint that's lying around. My pens must be fine-point, and the ink must be black and flow smoothly across the page, as if it's skating on ice. The pen itself must feel good between my fingers: it should be perfectly round, not too fat, and a little heavy.

6. Lifestyle changes start on Mondays.

If it's Tuesday and I get all inspired to start doing yoga every day, I can't start until Monday. If I decide to go on a diet or cut down on my coffee consumption or start a new writing schedule, I can't start until Monday. If I don't start on Monday, I have to wait for the following Monday to start.

7. All time is measured in quarters of an hour.

The only time that exists for me comes in fifteen minute increments. Don't tell me to be somewhere at 6:20. Tell me to be there at 6:15 or 6:30. You will never see me set my alarm for 7:25 or 7:40. It will be 7:15 or 7:45. Teaching drove me crazy, because the reading block would start at 9:23 and end at 10:17, lunch from 12:01 to 12:24 and so on. I printed the schedule and stuck it in the back of my ID badge and referred to it every single day, because not even after nine months could I keep the times straight.

8. Recipes are meant to be followed.

If a recipe calls for 1/4 teaspoon of salt, I have to pour the salt in the appropriate measuring spoon and scrape a knife over it to ensure it's exactly 1/4 teaspoon. If a recipe calls for a pinch of salt, it infuriates me. What the hell is a pinch of salt? A pinch of salt for someone who has big sausage man hands is going to be considerably different than a pinch of salt for someone with long, dainty piano playin' fingers. So against what standard am I supposed to calculate what a pinch of salt is? And don't even get me started on sticks of butter with measuring lines that don't line up exactly with the ends of the stick.

9. Gas is always rounded up to the nearest dollar.

I cannot pump $10.02 in gas. If I miss the $10.00 mark, I have to bump it up to $11.00. If I miss the $11.00 mark, I have to go up to $12. Now that I think of it, I always round up my bill payments to the nearest dollar as well.

10. Packing cigarettes is an exact science.

Before I quit smoking (which took place on a Monday, of course,) packing my cigarettes was an exact science: Hit the pack ten times on the palm of my hand, turn it 180 degrees and pack nine times. Turn it 180 degrees and pack eight times. Turn it 180 degrees and pack seven times. And so on, all the way down to one last whack on the palm for good measure before opening it.

So, tell me, because I'm dying to know: Is all that normal? Do you have little hard and fast rules that give you the collywobbles when you break them?

A Conversation With Ruby About...I'm Not Sure What

I can understand what Ruby says 99.9 percent of the time. Today was a .1 percent day.

Ruby: There's a chaner in the firejip.

Me: What?

Ruby: There's a pain in the virejrip.

Me: A pain in the what?

Ruby: Virejrip. Virejip. You know? There is a plane in the firejip.

Me: I'm not sure what you're saying!

Ruby: A plane in the firejip. Hot fire. Pain in the hot jack fun player. Plane in the firejrip.

Me: Well, okay then!

The Anatomy of a Collage

One of my grand obsessions is making collages. I can't remember why or how I started doing it, but Gerardo says it's because I have itchy fingers that always need to be fiddling with things.

When I was 8 or 9, I cut the picture of Paul McCartney out of my mom's "Help" album (sorry again, mom.) and told everyone on the bus that he was my boyfriend. That was the first time I cut a picture out of a published work and weaved it into a tall tale.

My first collages weren't narrative. They had names like "Red Hand" and "Fishing" and "Shoe."

But then suddenly, a couple of years ago, they turned narrative:

The Salesman

Critters

Over & Done With

Tourists

Putting Out Fires

I usually have between five and ten collages going at once, all in various stages of completion. Sometimes I get obsessed with one in particular and pick at it and fiddle with it until it either falls apart at the seams or suddenly blossoms into being. Other times, I know exactly the moment I see it that an image will be right for a particular collage, whether it's something specific I've been looking for or some random interloper that suddenly and perfectly changes the story. 

I'm sure there's a scientific explanation for the changes that occur in my thought process when I make them, but I'm not versed in brain science. In layman's terms, my busy, chatty brain lies down to rest its eyes for a spell, and ephemeral little floaty tendrils snake forth, fanning out across seas of images, responding to color, texture and mood, feeling out stories and scenarios, gently examining deep-seated fears and biases, and organizing it all into little stories or voyeuristic glimpses without conscious effort. It's very meditative: My internal dialogue becomes murky, indelible and visceral. I can't put quotes around it, as much as I'd love to read that novel. 

Last week, I decided to document the making of a few collages to see how the stories evolve and change with each addition. I don't typically pay attention to these things as I'm working on a collage, and don't usually think about it in retrospect, but I'm often asked how I come up with the ideas for them. My go-to answer, "they sort of create themselves," sounds vague and a little pretentious to me. So I thought I'd find out for reals.

I have a large collection of books I draw from when I make a collage. Sometimes I start by thumbing through them to see what images catch my imagination. Today, I find a boy and girl with their backs to me, looking out in the distance. I've seen them a million times, but today they speak to me, so I cut 'em out. I find a landscape to put them against that gives the impression of distance. They boy and girl are watching something. What are they looking at? My first thought is dancing tigers, but I'm not really in the mood for animals today.

I thumb through more books, and there's an interesting sky. Some kind of energy is emanating earthward. Is it good energy or bad energy? Something is definitely afoot, but I don't know what it is yet. 

I thumb through some more books, and there's a picture of some kind of space explosion. I cut out a little piece of the smoke. Something's on fire over that hill!

What caused the fire? What's causing the shower of light? I'm pretty sure it's aliens on both counts, so I thumb through more books and find a painting of some creepy-looking Renaissance women who will make perfect aliens. I cut out a couple of them and remove their head coverings. In a science book, I find an  instrument that will make a perfect alien spacecraft. I also find a missile. It looks like the government is shooting first and asking questions later. 

I add another alien to the craft. Something should be coming out of the spacecraft that's somehow interacting with the landscape. I go the the classic source of expressive arms and hands, the Illustrated Children's Bible, and cut off some bloke's arm. I also find a robed gentleman (Moses?) who is shaking a stick at the pesky aliens.  

Yeah, the robed guy isn't working for me, so I take him out. I find some other scientific tools and embellish the spacecraft. I come across some fire and turn the smoldering thing over the hill into a full-blown explosion. I begin to consider that the aliens could be here to help. Maybe they're going to put out the fire, or maybe they're just gathering samples to take home. But who knows? Evil isn't always ugly, and mercy doesn't always look benevolent. Either way, in about three seconds they're going to get it. 

Friend? Or Foe?

This next collage started out all about colors and textures. The sun and clouds came first, followed by the cityscape and the giraffe head. The giraffe, poor guy, was going to be waiting for his man, once I found the appropriate shady carnivore.

As I searched for the right characters, I found the water. 

Then I stumbled across Abe, holding out his hand as if to receive a little payment on the down-low. I think our most beloved president is about to make a deal of some kind. I set the giraffe aside and focus on looking for Abe's partner in crime.

                               

And here he is! This guy is perfect. He's handing off the money, and it looks like Mr. Lincoln has found a home for his inexplicable pile of snakes. 

Little Snake Problem

I like putting landscapes together from scratch, but sometimes I find a ready-made scene that's just begging for something to happen, like this one:

This chick just turned the scene into a B horror movie. She's being pulled into the rocks against her will, but what's got her? Some kind of sea creature, most likely.

Oops. Looks like we aren't on earth anymore. What kind of alien creature is ruining her day?

Giant land squid, of course. And there's another one floating toward her, about to make things twice as bad.

Oh, look! There's her scientist boyfriend, dedicated and oblivious on the other side of the cave, taking measurements. He's about to wish he'd listened to the Commander and brought along a ray gun. 

Natives

You can see more of my collages on my Tumblr page, which I occasionally update, or you can like my collage page on Facebook.