Beachwood Bassist

I saw Seawolf open for Nada Surf last night at the great First Avenue. First of all, Seawolf is a great band. I'm not sure who they remind me of, if anyone, but the vocals and songwriting are fantastic. Their stage presence, however, was terrible. The only movement on stage was the Dave Matthews-esque leg pumping of their lead singer. Besides that, it looked like we were sneaking a peak at a recording session. With the visual aspect kind of sucking, the audio was great, with the small exception of the bass drum mic. They had that thing mic'ed so loud that it had it's own pitch. I kept looking over at the bass player to see where the D# was coming from.

If Seawolf was an audio treat, then Nada Surf delivered on the visual front. The main singer, besides the mandatory rocker tight jeans, was very non-descript. Of the three man band, he was the sensible one I assumed. Button-up shirt, a haircut that wouldn't piss off the inlaws. The drummer is where their image started to get more interesting. The man, lanky as all getup, had a pair of bad-ass sideburns trailing down from his poofy hair, running right by his moustache. As he pounded on the skins, there were at least three or four times when I saw him go solo with his left hand, and thrust his right stick into the air like the hair-metal bands that he must have idolized as a kid. This, of course, was done with eyes closed and a slight head-bang to the beat. He was paying his homage to all the moustaches, sideburns, and Peter Criss' out there. He would have been the show-stealer if it weren't for the bassist.


Before the show started, all I could see through the curtain was an old bass. One that was either sanded by industrial equipment, or has been rocked so hard that the paint itself just said 'fuck it' and flaked off. Beachwood has come back looking less weathered than this instrument. And when the curtain lifted, the image of the man picking it up answered that question. He had rocked the crap out of that thing. He was short, just like his guitarist counterpart, but what he lacked in stature, he made up for in sheer attitude. Attitude by way of a leather jacket, dreadlocks down to his midriff covered by a dark rasta hat, and a cigarette poised aloof-ily between his lips. The dude was ready to rock. And rock he did. While smoking.

I've never seen someone smoke while singing before, but this guy made it through the whole first song, while singing backup vocals, puffing like a chimney. Every once in a while, probably when he had a lyric that involved an 'O', or and 'E', he had to dump the cigarette and stomp it out on the stage. And then between songs he would go back and grab another one, light it up quickly, and slap his hand back down on the strings. In addition to the Fonze-like aura surrounding this guy, the smoke also swirled around him, creating an effect like a dry ice machine hidden somewhere in that black leather jacket.

As the rocking got heavier, his motions became more animated, until the beat took over and he flung his cap to the floor with big sweeping motion of his neck. As the guitar melee burned through the amp, the bassist dove into his instrument, face now exposed to the light and showing the crackled truth of drugs and smoke and late nights. The smoke rose from each dred of his existence to create a halo, like and obsidian golem rising from the ashes of a volcano.

And my favorite moment, the most surprising quote of the night, came at the end when the band was leaving the stage. The bassist walked up to the mic, beer in one hand and instrument of auditory destruction in the other. I was expecting him to scream 'rock on!', or maybe 'fuck-something' and then we would all cheer, and feel cooler for doing so. But he just spoke in a very soft and sincere voice "You guys are really sweet, thank you." and then walked off the stage. Fonze? What?

You're welcome?