Home Arts & Entertainment Drawing down the moon at Pyramid Scheme

Drawing down the moon at Pyramid Scheme

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By “Cryptic” Josh Villaire
Collegiate Staff 

The praying mantis of rock had me harping right down to my size 12 shoes as I flung myself like a rag-doll into the fray of The Pyramid Scheme Bar April 18.  In all honest discretion the place gives me the heebie-jeebs  at times with its Pyramid eyeballs that stare into the back of your skull, but the band Secret Geometry was playing pinnacle with plastic idols on stage so’s I could forget more accurately.  Like all the other dog-eared, long-locked, Pyramid Scheme cohorts, I was wooed by the Secrets’ mop-head glam appeal.  From their singers frothy spill of Sassooned locks to his ankle high combat poop-stompers.

Unfortunately the serenity of their gloomy Kodak band kitsch began to disintegrate like the facade of a pimple-popped junkie under hot lamps when the rift between swaggering singer and raging bassist became almost painful to the pupae.  While the scrawly bass player sucked lemons through his invisible straw with each breath, his forgettable sludge poured out like Tourette’s syndrome over razored eye-lid and dead head-drums.  Walnut sized signs of abuse marked the bassies’ puss leading me to believe that the lead guitarist/singer was a thrill to kill for.  The out-of-tune axes were the only thing I dug satiating my discordant vibes and raw ribbing.  I had become so intrigued by their “Behind the Music” sensationalism that the next thrash band Abortion Survivors was in full sexual swing before I could spit my Black Label.

Bathed in the primordial ooze of the trance-inducing spot-lights, these boys from a doomed womb writhed and cried “96 tears” for anyone with a hate on their plate.  They smelled too much like a poorly-aged crockery machine; didn’t grip my friendly ghost bulge and tear it asunder enough to sock the shocks.

Everyone & Their Empty Cups kicked up dust next and made me sneeze up cigarette smoke from my teen years.  Their set sounded with a brooding build-up and before you could eat your peas we all had rotten, rock plaque coating our chompers.  Harkus was riding the bass like a horse up-stream, and their finale fueled imagery of a detached uterus blown to pieces in a deadly roulette game from hell!  The band was well versed in the art of writhing on the floor like slicked maggots on trash.

Next, Bat Cave, another band from Kalamazoo, kicked in the mental walls  like spiteful dream police and stole our black hearts right from under us.  I tasted shreds of Joy Division and the Fall in their cooking as these moody, bastard children cruised through one song after another.  Their drab, bespectacled singer was not fashionable at all which threw pies at the ineffective qualities of Secret Geometry and sexual identity in general.  Their sound was all over the place like an exploded bowel after the artist inserts painted enema stick!

The band, Trinket, shut the set to death with sharp crystallized vigor via Lena’s upper registers and plushy smiles.  In the swampy wings you could feel something building like hunger pains of the famished, but in this well-chisled moment everyone was sold by Lena’s vox and goof guitars.  Chad chunked through the stink bubbles, tearing drums like some tear ass.  I was shackled to how he would pick pockets of the drum I never would expect to make sound but happily enough the drum winced and mooed like it was bound to pop a calf soon.

Suddenly, like a half-remembered wet dream doused in leather, the tables were flipped, and the band Planet of ID popped in between Trinkets’ schizo-showcase!  It was a pearl in a swirly skurl oyster as Planet’s singer Derek grabbed Lena’s guitar quickly filling all holes of it with electric doo-hickies and unadulterated noise which terrorized anyone in ear-shot.  I loved and lived for his menacing, expressions that rained down with the hail of guitar shriek like the atomic fire from frieght bombers.  The whole slobbering world came loose while Derek danced a full moon jig of ages in subliminal glory!

This shock-wave swirled well as the Trinket tumult restarted itself and their bastard boy flew coop.  Chad was back on vox and axe; drawing us through odd alleys and restless shadows as my whitey tighties grew tighter with each obtuse scream.  You know its a helluva show when you forget to drop trow until you get home to find yourself messed!  I followed the moon home in a dizzy daze thanks to these crazy, psychic kids!