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here we go again

what the hey

It’s a balmy Thursday evening at the Osceola Tavern, a three-story, wood-frame landmark on the southern edge of downtown Dade City. Sobriety - an as-yet unquantified quartet of local felons and metalheads boasting all original material - is to make its unofficial debut with an unpaid set.
Funny, but factor in a couple toothy coeds and no cover charge and this Sobriety thing sounds better all the time.
Arriving a few minutes early, we belly up for a cold pint, starting a tab and retreating to a small corner table to take advantage of its lonely fan, lack of smoking restrictions and unobstructed view of the door.
It’s a little after nine before DJ, tavern proprietor and karaoke czar Mike Agnello finally squelches the PA. We hasten a piss, pausing only to give the seat a fresh wipe and flush with a foot.
A Durst look-alike sporting a Dropkick Murphys shirt and whiskbroom beardy introduces himself by dropping the obligatory F-word along with a rather noncommittal string of incoherent shout-outs. His musicians skulk to their places.
Woah! the building suddenly erupts, spasmodic muscle memory and damaged inner ears recalling dash-rattling agonies of blown coaxials past. Too much bass, dude.
Guitar and drums noodle self-consciously as Beardy (vocalist Brian Dempsey) and bassist (former Blackstoner Tommy Hemingway) scramble to remedy the glitch.
By the time Osceola Mike decides to intervene with some “Dirty Deeds” on the PA, a full third of the patrons have headed for the exits in a muttering mass of boredom and disgust.
“What the fuck,” band manager Mark Johnson is heard to shrug. “Shit happens, man.”
We dig in our pockets for tobacco, the eyes and bodies of what stunned alcoholics remain wandering in aimless, desperate quest for stimuli.

“Well, we’re back,” Dempsey finally manages, his guttural mutterings trailing off into something or other we resist any further effort to decipher. Anticipatory tensions diminish with every syllable.
Call us critical, but was a substantial hunk of Ozzie’s own aura not severely damaged when his mouth was allowed to open for something other than his preordained lyrics? Hell, even then it was hit or miss.
To fire on all cylinders, death metal’s gothic moorings of leather, chrome and cartoon blasphemy seem to demand that its frontmen refrain from coming off like fraternity drunks. Scary stuff, sure, though it tends to make the whole violence and horror angle play a lot closer to Al Lewis than Crowley.
The welcome clack! clack! clack! of a pair of percussive sticks brings us around.
We find Dempsey has assumed a puke position betwixt the strings, Hemingway and drummer Matt Formby weaving a turgid foundation upon which guitarist Jason Capriglione’s can cast his crude melodies.
Grasping his testicular area with a left, fellatiating the mike with a white-knuckled right, Dempsey begins with a menacing bellow, his bent, husky stalking interrupted mid-sludge with an incomprehensibly screamed testament or some sort to the celestial sphere that is the Osceola’s tobacco-stained ceiling.
The outburst stumbles to a close amid a smattering of feedback.
“I’m Brian,” a sweating, breathless Dempsey intones. “And I’m here to shred my fucking vocals ‘til they bleed.”
We take him at his word.
A scorching lead announces the onset of the next number, shifting tempos and spoken rants divining an ugly if durable bridge between vintage Black Flag, a five horse Briggs & Stratton and “Hairspray Queen”-era Nirvana.
We’re delighted when the third selection (a dirge-like tangle of nettle and barbed rust) briefly shifts gears into a psychedelic showcase for Capriglione’s artier, less caustic leanings before inevitably settling back into more sludge and shouting.
We have no idea what the hey Dempsey’s saying, but apparently he’s sad and a little angry.
“Drink up,” he reminds us as the snare kicks in, heralding what is immediately and unanimously judged to be the best of the lot thus far.
Starting at a spinout, Sobriety unwind like never before, riding the clutch and downshifting midway to negotiate a thorny hairpin meter.
This is a good band, we decide. We’re happy they’re pissed. It will some day be an honor to say we knew them when.
Then, just as suddenly, someone hits the brakes. From our vantage point, it’s hard to determine precisely just who was at fault, but we stall just the same, arcane hippie guitar leading us alone through the mire and out the other end.
But wait. What is this? Is there no other end?
We realize we’ve been shanghaied into another song entirely. We feel cheated. What a shitty way to end the best song of the evening! Greasy biker fucks.
The racket ceases to a din of feedback as the crowd claps and hoots its approval. We feel like whores: just another member of some tasteless, attention-starved mass of sweating, farting, pissing, coughing hormones and hair who gobbles whatever it’s fed. We are different, we decided. We possess a Critical Eye. We decided to drink faster.
A new, primal beat catches our collective ear. Almost pleasant, it sounds remarkably like standard-issue, radio-ready hardcore, replete with something that might charitably be described as a homogenous, truncated Caucasian rap.
The song draws the loudest applause of the evening. We worry about the upcoming election.
“Anybody ever have a girl piss ‘em off?’ Dempsey queries. We decline to document the response.
What follows, however, is Sobriety’s approximation of a power ballad, though it too is quick to find a chord change with which to attach a hissy fit. “Sister Christian” for the pierced and damaged set.
Sadly, it soon becomes apparent that this music stirs little emotion but dull irritation and an eye-rolling sense of deja vu. Perhaps that’s the point. Either way, the increasingly besotten audience smatters its approval. We’re the folks who always detested The Doors, after all.
“Fuck reggae,” Dempsey intones, pertinent to nothing, as far as we can sumise. “Anybody down with sinsemilla? We’ll talk later.”
A severe stab at a Caribbean toast ensues, but is regrettably given up for dead after a single verse. Hey wait a minute, we grouse. Why stop there?
For all the shouting, pentacles and hoodoo, that single verse was the most interesting and dangerous experience of the evening. Like Harleys and facial hair, demons come in many forms, my friend. Let’s see how truly crazy these cats are.
An obscenity-ridden rant soon follows, its shouted chorus a mystery even among the lushes who echo phonetically back toward stage. Whatever they’re saying, we can’t disagree. Its sounds kind of musical, sorta.
We return from the can. If Sobriety can keep it up, it appears that the set will conclude on a high note, the crowd actually beginning to interact with the performers somewhat.
Then Dempsey lets slip with another venomous “motherfucker,” quieting the room to a curious and somewhat agitated murmur.
The music stumbles to a shaky stop. Glances are exchanged. No one seems surprised to find the set has run its course.
As the band packs up its instruments - Cake’s version of Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive” gnawing at our brainpans - it is noted that chief among the band’s groupies is one Maxi Mouse.
Like the great Disney empire, we are reminded, the Osceola Tavern was founded as a family establishment and labor of love. Osceola Mike and better half Claire reside with their young sons just out back and often upstairs and deserve a little respect.
With experience, of course, it is possible that perhaps Sobriety will prove a tad less noxious and depressing, focusing on its musical (read melodic and rhythmic) strengths rather than pandering to foundations.
Meantime, a pinch of Propriety would do.