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Formats and Editions
1. Don't Think
2. Run Away
3. Destroy The World (Tonight)
4. The Cathedral
5. Neon Black
6. Resurrect The Dead
7. Six To Two
8. Knife Fight
9. No
10. New Modern Situation / Believe
More Info:
For Whom the Band Toils Bridge Club with The Future and Death to Our Enemies & Economy Team The Varsity Theatre Minneapolis, Minnesota August 31st, 2006 "Between the Idea and the Reality... falls the Shadow." --T.S. Elliot T.S. Elliot must have been in a rock and roll band to come to grips with such a smooth pearl of wisdom. The idea of a rock and roll band is a monument to some of the finest human capacities. The reality of a rock and roll band depends largely on how they cope with the shadow... It was a pleasant evening in a very fast and cruel city-utter disappointment is as common as electricity-and a cool dark breeze snaked down the collar of my shirt as I walked through Dinkytown toward the Varsity Theatre's towering marquee. The streets were unnaturally quiet with the first tides of fall pushing down from the north on a beautiful starry night with hearts, moons, clovers, flying bicycles, horseshoes, pot's of gold, rainbows and red balloons. Whoops. "Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to eat all those pills at once," I thought aloud "This is a pretty large order of benzodiazepines," the pharmacist said skeptically when I filled the prescription. "I've got a nervous horse," I lied. The pharmacist wrinkled his brow. "Maybe you should see a veterinarian then." "Nonsense," I said impatiently. "It's a miniature horse and it can't swallow those large animal pills. It could choke to death. Now please hurry, I'm late for an important assignment as a rock critic." "You're a journalist? Why didn't you say so...? Tell your horse not to operate heavy machinery and avoid confusion when taking these. Oh, and watch out for ataxia." "What's ataxia?" I asked. "The Central Nervous system's GABA receptor gets bogged down causing the victim to lose all muscle coordination. Your horse's knees will go wobbly and then he'll fall down and swallow his tongue." "Jesus," I cried, "do you have any pills in case something like that happens?" "Sure, Flumazenil. Give me a minute to dig some up." To get the proper perspective for my first rock and roll show as a journalist, the pills, I felt, were essential. I was assigned to cover Bridge Club, a local three-piece I was already familiar with, and I knew from experience that it was going to take the right kind of eyes to truly appreciate their performance as a professional. Becoming a rock critic was a personal breakthrough; I couldn't blow it with a bunch of amateur gibberish, I needed to deliver from a necessary vantage and would have to chance falling off the ledge and swallowing my tongue. I crossed a lonely intersection and stopped, momentarily, outside the window of a small bar to rest my knees. There were football highlights playing on the television set inside. The aroma of hamburger and sun-baked concrete was rolling through a darkened alley. Watching the muscular, high-priced football players jack-hammering into each other under the white flood of stadium lights, as the television roared with every violent blow, it occurred to me that the players shared a striking similarity with rock musicians: two professions that demand speed, precision, violence and brotherhood. Both the musician and football player spend days and weeks-often the entirety of their youth-harnessing their power for those rare moments when the lights jump on and all hell breaks loose. If they are lucky, their careers will last more than five relevant years. Indeed, look closely. There is not much difference in the faces of a crazed linebacker bearing down on an exposed quarterback and that of a rock musician on stage wailing at an instrument. They are bloodthirsty savages who want to mash you into jelly and get paid for doing it-in sex & drugs, fame & fortune, and whatever else they can squeeze from you. They are modern hero's whose images are tacked to countless bedroom walls and gossiped over in maddening detail, second in deity to only God. Or is it the Devil? Errrrrrrt! A searing horn blasted twenty feet behind me. A long black Lincoln Towncar without headlights burst down the alley and skidded around the corner, squealing it's tires as it caught the well oiled road and roared through a red light, fishtailing toward the jawbone silhouette of downtown. It came within three feet from plastering me to a brick sidewall. The driver appeared to be holding a long, curved sickle in one hand and a liter of premium whiskey in the other. He was steering the powerful car expertly with his bony knees. I didn't get a good look at his face because it was draped beneath the hood of a long black robe, but there was something oddly familiar about him. Something in the red glow of his eyes. Uncle Randy? Couldn't be. Uncle randy doesn't own a sickle, does he? No, it wasn't Randy. It was Him. And I don't think He appreciated the correlation I was attempting to make. He takes plenty of souls from the ranks of rock musicians and professional football players, and anyone trying to connect the dots better have their head on a swivel. Let's drop that string of thought before it's too late. I admire my life enough to not wander too deep into the Devil's ways and means. Besides, I was a rock critic with an all-access press pass to the Varsity Theatre, and it's difficult to see the stage laid out on a stretcher. Leave the football to the sports writing hacks and let someone else deal with Devil, I thought, turning on my heels and wading out again down the belly of Dinkytown. Everything was falling into place: cool weather, football on television, rock and roll bands, near misses by the Grim Reaper, an all-access press pass. It was the perfect night to get seriously into loud music. Or that's the way it seemed until the Shadow clamped down. ********** Fall is the best time to attend rock concerts (fuck the leaves and the apple orchards; they are for chronic bed-wetter's). Autumn brings a certain sense of doom that lends itself divinely to loud, intense rock music-it's in the stars for those of you bent on mysticism-the failing temperature and sudden sunsets warn of an impending collapse in summer's friendliness. Things will get mean and ugly in the near future: dead batteries, aching toes, total darkness, ball-breaking cold, wolves at the door. It is inevitable. But for a few short weeks each year, Rock and Roll meets Mother Nature head on in wicked battle of wills. And tonight, I was looking forward to getting caught in the middle. The blood and guts would make for great copy. Three blocks later, I came upon the brilliant marquee reaching up over the neighborhood's heavy brick buildings. Framed in stark yellow lights it read: Bridge Club with The Future and Death to Our Enemies Hot damn, I thought, a moment of pure beauty. Like when the whirling tumblers of a combination lock drop into place. I've been a longtime fan of Bridge Club and seeing their name high off the street in large black lettering was proof of a lot of things I've said about the band. It looked and felt Right. Suddenly a knot gripped my stomach. Uh oh. The black marquee lettering reeled away into the distance and then throbbed back to within inches of my nose as a flood of strange memories fused my brain circuits together... a white hot light opened behind my eyes... The sickening sensation of falling... falling... It wasn't ataxia. It was worse: hallucinations. A handful of chalky benzodiazepines had plunged me into a hideous nightmare. A heinous flashback to the first time I accidentally saw Bridge Club perform two years ago. Sweet Jesus, the pharmacist never said anything about uncontrollable flashbacks. I was overcome with monstrous visions of a night exactly like tonight... The terrible urge to get blind drunk immediately... sitting at the bar in Big V's with a known felon when three handsome men confidently step out onto the stage... "Who's this?" A weird hush then the fantastic jolt of black lightning that cracked down my spine as the first burst of a guitar came down like a hammer ... louder and lou
