Pelican

Club Lambi
July 22, 2007
Montreal

mr. Fingers

I can spare you the details and just say this. Pelicans are great birds. They bleed for their young. But Pelican is an even better band. And I don’t even like hardcore. Or is it metalcore. Who really gives a core? Not me. Not now, and not yesterday while I was spitting blood at their show, and not tomorrow when I will be rubbing fermented chilies on my nads in Haiti.

Chewing gum had proved surprisingly more difficult than anticipated and having a cracked molar slice into my cheek as I was coming down on my gum made me look hard. I was in a sea of black t-shirts of bands named after the obscure yet poignantly gothic. Like what Smith or Johnson would be to the telephone book of Hardcore, America. I took my cue from the people around me while the metronome heads on stage kept perfect time. They were actually good, named after a woman who either a) belonged in history or in some dark novel that takes place in castles under overcast skies, or b) some chick who dumped the drummer in high school. Either way – they were good. So what’s in a name anyway?
For all the tat-sleevin’ muscle of a hardcore show, the whole jam risks being no less pretentious than the synthed-out, painfully uncreative 80’s radio-pop/rap revival circus sideshow currently in progress these days or (poverty)Gap–loving suburban sentinels. Those kids have their neon. The hardcores have their black t-shirt and pants. One wears the clothes I wore when I was seven and a sideways pigtail, the other has black jeans and some thought-out sideburns. One side dresses like a serial killer, the others own records that have unfairly been the scapegoat of serial killings. And the list goes on.
I tried to decipher the intricate noddings of the crowd, decoding patterns of admiration or disinterest. Nods I could decipher were four. The first was the funk neck. The kind of nod that says I was cutting rug at a party last night and I wanted to show the pretty girl how much I liked the song, but now I’m at a hardcore show and my dance moves may get me cut here so instead I’ll dance like I’m giving a 12 foot man with a tiny cock a blow-job. Next was the reticent nod. It’s the kind of nod that says I’ve been to a million of these shows and I support the bands and buy their gear cuz I know what a struggle it is to get by as a band, but this band isn’t quite doing it: they sound like this other band with that other guy from this one band when they were doing that album that sounded like their other one only better.
The third nod is the nod of the seasoned vet. The kind of nod that a coach gives a player when down 3-2 late in the third but he knows they’re going to tie it up and net the winner before OT and he won’t really celebrate because it’s the impatience at waiting for that which no one had faith would ever come, except him. This nod can be characterized by a long hard gaze, semi squinted eyes fixed on a single element on stage with arms crossed and a smirk which says, ‘kill em now, Tony. Kill em now and then chop up their bodies and throw them in the river cuz this is killer, Tony. It’s killer.’ There were many of these killer nods at Pelican but there was also the affectionate nod of the lanky guy with the plaid shirt with his arms around his girlfriend while the birds bled on stage and finally the Hardcore nod. The nod to sleep on the back couch because I haven’t slept since last week. Why? Because I’m hardcore. What can I say? It was a memorable show. And though lyrically Pelican seemingly attempt no marriage to any stated revolution, and by seemingly I mean they don’t seem to have a singer to sing them into any corners. These birds are just straight-up rockers with a wisely-conceived sound that delivers.
As Pelican finished their set Dandy found herself in a conversation with Ramon, the manager/doorman/bartender/stuntman/goddamned nice fellow of the Lambi. He was one of only few men who understood Dandy’s real ethnicity. As the birds took off to their next build, perching there only to get a better eye on the fishy masses before they dove in for the slaughter (I don’t even know if pelicans hunt this way but they should) Ramon explained in romantic detail the ritual filled Novembers which Haitians essentially devote to the dead. He described a process of drinking a mélange of around 50 chillies fermented in alcohol, drinking it, breathing it, and even applying it to the genitals. It took me to a time when while preparing supper, I went to the bathroom after handling a single chili. I basically felt like someone had set fire to the head of my rifleman. The thought of generally applying alcohol of 50 fermented chilies had me cheering for death.

Dandy handed Ramon a crumpled photograph and asked him if he had seen the man in the picture. He said nothing. He shattered his scotch glass, muttered the word ‘Fong’ and let the scotch seap into his gaping wound as a single tear tersed his lips. Dandy was on the next plane to Haiti.