More Less Pain Forever Now
by Your Diva, Robin Pastorio-Newman

Call me impetuous! I don't feel like writing about brilliant live shows you're not seeing. It's fatiguing, exhorting you week after week to go out, fun-seeking, when you're notably apathetic and reaching for the remote. Let's talk about something else today. Let's gossip about brilliant live shows you're not seeing.

Last Friday, two guys with red suits and a dream made a big impression on me (I loved them) and a crowd (deserting the dance floor in droves). That kind of loathing gets my attention. Let's look at the band: look-alike musicians with bleach-blond tresses, red suits (as I mentioned before), a guitar, an austere drum set, keyboards. Less Pain Forever drove to New Brunswick from Arizona in a beat up camper. They had enough confidence in their songs, themselves and each other to spin the wheel. Their set is whip-smart, hilarious and so skillful you might not notice the drummer's playing the keyboards and never once swats the piano with the drumstick. But he doesn't. The songs kick ass, reminiscent of The Sweet or Sparks, a riot because these guys claim they've never heard of Sparks.

Okay: smart, funny, crazy, kicking ass. That's the band.

What about the crowd? Less Pain Forever was band #2 on a 3-band bill. The first band was certainly very good at what it did; conventionally nice-looking guys, mainstream radio-ready. That is not a compliment. Their fans, for whom the phrase "herd mentality" was coined, took absolutely no notice of anyone else in the room. Their haircuts matched, their leather jackets were brown, they had too much money. A lit cigarette in my hand was all that separated me from being completely overlooked in the course of polite society. The dance floor looked like a casting call for "Felicity" and, believe me, those people were there to be seen with the band, not to see the band play.

Later, when I refused to sign the band's mailing list, one of the musicians acted as if I'd spit in his Ovaltine. He and his fans deserve one another.

These, then, are the people for whom Less Pain Forever was too challenging. We're gossiping now, so let's cut to the chase: smart, funny, crazy, kicking ass was further in any interesting direction than the emotionally-stunted lightweights went. Their discomfort was visible when they weren't. I enjoyed that. After every song, at least half a dozen WB-series refugees departed the dance floor for shallower pools to splash in. Sadly, idiots were not replaced by the sophisticated curious, because the venue was packed with birthday party celebrants for a king of the Identical People. You know: matching haircuts, brown leather jackets, too much money, only closer to thirty. I felt strangely impelled to get a corporate job and blond highlights, so after Less Pain Forever, I left.

'Rob-alicious,' you're thinking, 'I too feel surrounded by no-talent mouthbreathers! Whatever will we do?'

It's simple. Put down the remote. Seek fun. Seek real smart, funny, crazy, kickass fun, and buy its CD. Support the thing that's worth doing and seeing. It's parking a beat up camper at a bar or club near you.

©2001 Robin Pastorio-Newman