Holy [the F word], who followed Crocodiles, at the Ottobar (Baltimore) – 24 May 2009

I’ve censored the title of this post, for Decency’s sake. Decency is the name of my three-year-old niece who reads this Web log religiously. If you read the rest of this post, be warned that the band’s actual name will be used, most likely on more than one occasion. Also, for some reason, I somewhat frequently write ‘Corcodiles’ instead of ‘Crocodiles’ when discussing that band.

Decency, you’re not allowed to read past the jump.

The real name of the headlining band is Holy Fuck. There. That’s that.

So, this was a concert in Baltimore. A little change of scene does a Hornblower good! Ha-HA! No. No way.

First of all, they charged me a dollar extra for being under 21. When I remarked to the woman at the door that they should take pity on a poor little sober Hornblower, she said — with utmost snobbery and disdain of a sort usually only seen when I encounter someone who still listens to Vampire Weekend — Well, no, it makes sense because we’re not making any money from you at the bar.

Really, plain-looking brunette? That’s fascinating. You’re so wise. You’re so wise, if you happened to be of Hispanic descent, I would call you a Wise Latina. Thank you so much for schooling me on the intricacies of the Ottobar’s pricing schematics. I once was blind, but now can see.

Once I was done smarting from the sting of this silly lady’s unduly cruel words, I settled into the cozy confines of the Ottobar. This place is little as hell. And there were barely any souls in the joint. Perhaps a score. A score of souls. That means twenty people.

I went up the stairs to catch Crocodiles’ opening set, and man, that air conditioner sure was powerful. Got me to shivering!

Crocodiles sure know how to dress and posture like rock stars. There are only two of them, though, and the singer only played guitar on one song, I think, so that was a bit odd — drum machines, of course, having no soul. Not to mention bass guitar machines. No soul. I’m not a fan of backing tracks, let me just say. Anyway, these two jokers are black leather and wayfarers to the end. The singer prances and writhes — all sharply angled joints and tousled hair, pantomimed pistols and phantom drum hits. I have to admit, though, they do have some good songs, and it was a pretty solid opening set. There’s really nothing wrong with wanting to be a rock star.

Judging by their name alone, Holy Fuck harbor no such pretensions to rock ‘n roll fame. Their electronic-driven music tell another story, however. I’m saying this because their most famous (and best) song, Lovely Allen, sounds like it was written expressly to soundtrack a commercial for GE that features a distinguished voiceover discussing the future of communication and human interaction and synergy and innovation while a montage of significant-looking images like oil fields, soccer matches and poor people flash by, steadily faster, until eventually the voiceover gets to the Important Part, and the Big Moment in the song happens and the screen just shows the Earth as seen from outer space and that’s about as close to feeling the connectedness of all humankind without dropping acid or studying Buddhism.

At least, that’s what I get from that song.

Holy Fuck’s set was energetic and compelling, which wasn’t an easy feat, since they don’t really have a frontman, and what few vocals they use are unintelligible yelps and cries. I thought the rhythm section was especially impressive, especially the drummer, who was genuinely not fucking around. Good to see someone attack the skins with vigor.

I’m sorry, was that last sentence pretentious and overly knowing? I don’t care.

And did I mention the big fucking permanent marker (Magnum, even! The nerve!) X that the pissy woman drew on each of my hands in order to mark me as underage? Makes me wanna holler.

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Tags: baltimore, crocodiles, holy f word, holy fuck, lovely allen, no set list, no setlist, ottobar, summer of hate

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