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Words » In Tune

It's still rock and roll to me

In my line of work, you get asked to do some out of the ordinary things. Like last week. A Mrs. Chen from the Education Bureau rang and asked if I would be interested in judging a student music contest. It was a yearly event sponsored by the government, and this year the focus was on bands. I readily agreed, and took down the address. You never know, maybe I'd discover the next Bruce Springsteen. There would be three judges in all, she said, and twelve groups performing. These twelve were selected out of one hundred contestants.

I arrived at the theater, near the corner of Nan King and Tun Hua, and was handed a flier by a young girl in a plaid shirt. She wore combat boots and had short orange hair. "This is our band, 1968, and we're the best! Remember us!" I took the flier which looked like a Bon Jovi concert promotion, and assured her that I would think of them.

The theater was filled with groupies and band members huddled together in groups, chattering and looking around. Everyone wore big plaid shirts and combat boots. I was shown my spot along with the other judges, and given a clipboard with twelve forms attached. On the forms there were little boxes that I needed to fill in: "Style," "Technique," "Group Participation," and "Presentation." I was still deciphering the form when the lights went out, and a MC suddenly bounded onto the stage doing a double handspring and a back flip to the microphone. I dropped my pen. "Are you ready to ROCK?" he exploded.

"YEAH!!!" roared the students.
"Are you ready to PARTY?" he screamed.
"YEAH!!!"
"Well here's our first group, ROCKIDS!!!!"

Rockids sprung into action, thrashing their guitars around, and flipping lots of hair. And I mean there was a lot of hair on that stage. I glanced around the auditorium to see what kind of reaction Rockids were getting from the audience. Then I realized that the entire theater was filled with hair. Overflowing with hair. Enough hair to carpet the Taj Mahal. The tressled mob bobbed up and down and seemed to enjoy the effort Rockids put out. I gave them an eighty-five.

Next was 1968, the band with the flier. The audience calmed down. People started having conversations. I looked at my watch. Oh well. I gave them a sixty-eight.

The announcer came back out dressed as a Peruvian horseman. He was a cross between Zoro and Pancho Sanchez. I asked the judge next to me, "Who is this guy?" He talked about the program while the next band came out and plugged in their instruments. They looked interesting. They had an interesting name, Medicine Cabinet. When the announcer finished, he swirled his cape with a flourish and horsy-stepped off the stage. The guitars immediately came to life, and the lead singer started pogo-sticking around the stage. He ran four laps around the band before singing a word. Pretty cool. A cross between Prodigy and Portishead. He wore horned-rimmed glasses and wore an Adidas track suit. Very modern. I listened intently through their first two numbers, but was distracted by a bright glittering from the bass player's bellybutton. Every time she jumped up and down, her bellybutton would blink. Then I figured out she had a diamond- studded pierced navel. Very chic. I couldn't understand a word they sang but they definitely scored high. Ninety-seven.

Next we were treated to a forty-minute run of average typical what-you-would-expect-for-a-student-band bands, and I had a chance to talk to the fellow jurors. It was very hard to hear by that time, and we kept saying, "Whuh??" So we communicated by hand signals. I sneaked a quick peek at their scores as well. Forty-five, fifty-two, twenty-six. I was being generous. We endured "Rocky's Theme: Gonna Fly Now" played by an out of tune electric violinist, and yet another version of "Smoke On The Water." Then finally one group came on who looked like the Brady Bunch. They wore cardigan sweaters (even though it was thirty degrees Celsius outside), and the lead singer looked like she just got out of a bushiban. I prepared for something cute and funny. Unfortunately, they tried to sing and play instruments. I don't know how better to put it. The judge next to me cringed, and I looked at her hopelessly. "When is this going to end?" she said with her hands. They got an unanimous zero.

I figured we had seen about all there was to see, and started counting up the scores. I thought about all those times I was in their place, on stage, playing a song for some judges, and I suddenly felt as old as Noah. I didn't have a big plaid shirt. My hair was still black, and there was no metal sticking out of my nose. But at least I had combat boots on. While I sat there chewing my lip and staring at my boots, the MC came back out, this time dressed in a Chinese Monkey King outfit. He slashed the air with his sword and stood on one foot for a very long time. I mentally gave him a ninety-three. "The final band of the night.....PHONIC."

As these words rang in the air, a long guttural scream arose from behind the curtain. It sounded like Beelzebub meets the garbage disposal. Then a thin singer dressed in black began thrashing around violently on the stage. He was having a seizure. He threw his arms about wildly. He gasped for air, spun around, and fell to the floor. He didn't move. Quick someone call the ambulance. Then the band screamed into action. A burning doom metal throb issued from the guitars as Phonic grabbed our undivided attention. They smoked through three acid-punk-noise-inspired-thrash-rock originals while hair and sweat and noise burst from the stage. Now this was cool. I looked at the students around me, mostly girls under twenty and other band members, and everyone was tapping or shaking or moving some part of their body. The judge next to me screamed, "ISN'T THIS TOO LOUD?"

"NO," I motioned, and showed her my score card. One hundred. This is rock and roll.

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