Ten O’Clock Scholar
with Omatic at The Middle East Cafe
by Austin Nash
Button up your pants, put your wind goggles on, and get a helmet on that soldier, he’s gonna see some action. Omatic stormed onto the stage at the Middle East sometime in June and rocked. Straight-forward, great sound (provided so graciously by a woman who screwed around with the equipment on stage during the whole show), no songs longer that a minute and a half, and stick-it-in-your-ear-and-jam-it-crunchy layered guitars. Not to mention that a band with a pretty girl in front (former Brainiac guitarist) who was quoted when asked why she quit Brainiac as saying something like: “I didn’t want to tour with them because I’m cleaner than that.” My kingdom for a clean woman. This is just the kind of media crap that starts rumors.
Ten O’Clock Scholar took the stage around midnight. It was hot. It was Monday. It was no time to be at a rock show. I wanted to leave but couldn’t let the representatives from Grass see me ’cause then somebody would know for sure that this is bullshit. The credibility of this indefatigably consuming piece of literature was riding shotgun to all of our integrity.
Chances are good that I need to give somebody a kiss somewhere for instilling me with the courage to stay. Ten O’Clock Scholar is one of the finest pieces of rock (rock, what?) I’ve been a sloppy witness to this summer. I reviewed the album Quietest from these gents earlier, and can say Holly berry shit!! I had no idea what to expect. An eerie and drowning specter on vocals and guitar that looked like Mickey Rourke, Billy the stocking cap kid from Brooklyn on bass, and a bonus nerd who looked like he’d have a last name like ‘Shittenhere.’ I’ve really got to hand it to the drummer, however (grow up, it doesn’t really matter what somebody looks like in music, it’s just cool to make fun), who was responsible not only for insane facial expressions, wildly flailing drum sticks, practically falling off of his stool constantly, and making mine move, but also for some undaunted Monday night energy that generally one only gets from ingesting half a dozen diet shakes. His ride cymbal is larger than a garbage can lid, and he uses a marching band bass drum propped in place with a dirty ol’ cinder block, likely stolen from the launch pad at Cape Canaveral. The show was terribly inspired and much closer to ‘rock’ (for those who fear noise bands) than the album. I recommend it in the shade, diving from an eighth story window, slitting the throat of the neighbors cat, and carving gold from the sun. Amen.
