2002-01-31

Bombastic suckitude

My band's practice space, located on the fifth floor of a warehouse in the South End, is really the place to be in terms of seeing and being seen, if you care about that sort of thing. I'd be lying my ass off if I said that I didn't spend a good deal of my time being stupidly, slavishly star-struck.

Unfortunately, though, for every random encounter with the likes of Evan Dando, there are days � nay, weeks � at a stretch where we are subjected to some really horrible music.

We have new neighbors next door. I have no idea who they are or what they look like; all I can tell you is that they're always there, and they're stultifyingly, brain-scaldingly bad.

Tom refers to them as the "Dawson's Creek" band. We think that they're really trying to get one of their songs on the show. They play it more or less constantly. It's this loud, borderline-sensitive dirge-y thing with a Big Chorus where the singer goes on about "morning sun." It's gotten so we all know it by heart. Sort of. What we can make of the lyrics, anyway.

"What is he singing? �Moaning Son?'"

"That would actually be better." (Ever notice that? Misheard lyrics are, by and large, usually better than the actual lyrics.)

How to describe the sonic assault perpetrated upon us on a near-nightly basis? They're incredibly earnest, sort of like Creed, but worse, really. Derivative in that "sounds-sensitive-but-is-likely-a-date-raper" sort of way. The singer sounds like Axl Rose with a deviated septum.

"Bombastic suckitude" is the term that came up last night, as they kicked in with yet another run-through of "Moaning Son." Tom and I tried to sing along, but just didn't have the vocal stamina for it at that point, as we'd spent roughly the first third of practice playing a little game we call "Dueling Ian Astburys." That's how productive we are, boy howdy (I won, by the by).

lisamcc at 12:01 p.m.

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