Periscope Depth

you think that this is just a kiss but I suggest you consider it a warning

I’ve spoken before (primarily on Yelp) about the premium I pay to live in Boston, as opposed to cheaper cities like Austin or Chicago. This weekend I made the most of that.

First off: Tasca after work on Friday with RJ, Sylvia, Joanna and Brian. Each of us picked three tapas off the menu; RJ wrote all our requests down, then re-wrote the list in numerical order. “My OCD’s acting up again,” he muttered. Our waiter was attentive and friendly, though he took his sweet time delivering the check.

Next stop: meeting Terry for a drink at Miracle of Science. He was in town to shepherd a bunch of undergrads at IGEM. “They’re still in that neophyte stage where they think failure is bad,” he explained. “They don’t realize that an experiment where seven steps out of nine fail is a smashing success.” We talked about the perils of living in Allston (many, and time has not blunted them) and election fall-out.

“All those four-color Obama posters?” Terry observed. “They looked really cool during the campaign – eye-catching, Mao-esque throwbacks. Once he actually becomes President, they’re going to look really creepy.”

I ducked out after half an hour to hit the Middle East Upstairs and watch some live bands. I caught the tail end of the Daily Pravda – an energetic bunch of rockers with an early 70s Bowie sound to them. Apparently, if I’d shown up ten minutes earlier I actually would have heard them covering Ziggy Stardust. I formed the comparison before I learned that; I promise.

Next set: Midatlantic, formerly known as the Bleedin Bleedins – an excellent change in band name from every perspective save SEO. I liked their gig a lot: think Killers, minus Duran Duran, plus U2. The lead singer looked like Rory Cochrane (Lucas from Empire Records) gone to seed. He strutted and pumped more than Matthew (see below), who struts with the best of ‘em.

I waited around the merch table toward the end of their set but nobody showed. Unwilling to complete my descent into hipster trash by stealing a local band’s CD (shoving it into my Misfits hoodie, perhaps, or asking my Asian girlfriend to stick it in her duct-tape purse), I bum-rushed the stage and got the lead singer’s attention while they wrapped up their mics. “I want to give you ten bucks and take a CD,” I explained. He directed me to his girlfriend – which isn’t unusual; “lead singer’s girlfriend” occupies a space in the Indie Rock Band Org Chart somewhere above Manager and below Sound Guy – who took my money and gave me a disc.

Last up: Provocateur, the band I came to see. They make a smooth, sensual electropop that you can’t help but dance to – listening to them is like fucking in vinyl pants. Matthew struts and croons with the best of ‘em (see above), and Stacia gets into it during the heavy parts. I jumped up, jumped up and got down.