EXTRA! EXTRA!

As a favor to a friend and a further experiment in writing for an audience, I wrote an article for our college news paper on the concert I attended which inspired my previous rant. For a more complete look at my thought from the evening, I've put the unedited version below, (though I believe uncensored is a more appropriate term).
Enjoy!:

Friday night was my first visit to Swarthmore's Old Club. I came away from it with a mixed bag of feelings but, overall, had a really great time. The theme of the night seemed to be violins, as pointed out by Ra Ra Riot's lead vocal, Wes Miles. After the first opening band's fantastic fiddling fury, the second openers, The Money Notes were indeed money. Their folk-funk funk fusion, (if that even adequately captures their sound), provided the house with brilliant covers of classics like 'Lil Liza Jane and Poison Ivy and a  little Weezer thrown into the mix. Their original pieces had me and my friends breaking out into spontaneously choreographed dance, a sight rarely seen by Swarthmore students, as I overheard from a confused, rhythm impaired individual behind me. Additional attempts of stand-up were also appreciated by those of us who were sober.

Things took an unsavory turn in the set-up time between the end of The Money Notes' set and the start of Ra Ra Riot's. A gaggle of belligerently drunk chicks pushed and stumbled their way to the front of the stage beside me. From that moment until about twenty minutes into the headliners' set, I was jostled and pushed to front row, dead center, which would have been great if I didn't have to restrain myself from assaulting the people standing next to me. I felt like I was on the loosing side of the battle of Thermoplyae from that scene in 300 when the Spartans were pushing Persians off a cliff into the sea. In addition to moving about in a particularly elbowy fashion, they were completely fucking with the sound equipment at the foot of the stage which resulted in a noticable amount of feedback  as well as pissing off singer Miles and cellist Alexandra Lawn. Nearly getting burned in the face by a cigarette belonging to the chicks' tall friend, I decided it was time to get out of the fray and ash and fade to the back of the crowd. Later I had to face the obnoxious antics of moshers, but fortunately I found a place with like-minded individuals. (Side note: Sometimes you don't need to fight for your right to party. You just need to go with it and want to have fun. If it's still not fun, maybe you need to rethink your life or leave the joint.)

Once there, peacefully swaying with the people packed against me, I was actually able to enjoy Ra Ra Riot's performance. I also no longer needed to confront guitarist Milo Bonocci's' tight pants, (let's just say I now know he dresses to the left). The performance was a pure explosion of sound, a synesthesia inducing epic that left me wanting more by the end. There wasn't any time to think about the fact that I had never listened to their music before; I just absorbed as much of the furious melodies pelting me from the stage. There was only the music and we were all just ears. No, I was not high. I was perhaps the most conscious and aware that I've been in a while. Ra Ra Riot delivered, in every sense of the word, dealing nobly with the problems caused by drunk chicks and apologizing several times for having to cancel a previously scheduled performance at Swat. I left a fan of two bands I'd never heard before as well as a new and loyal patron of Old Club.