Picture Credit: Kill Rock Stars. (Please don't sue me.)

The bad news is that I’d fail miserably as a rock critic.  The good news is that I think most rock critics fail miserably at being rock critics.

I went to see The Thermals at Bottletree on Monday night.  I first saw them live with The Hold Steady a while back and was excited to go back for more.  Bottletree is a good place to see a show and, for some reason, it seems like the bands are always talking about how much they like it.  I’m not sure if this is normal “We love you, Birmingham” stuff, but it seems especially prevalent at Bottletree shows, so they may be on to something.

The Bulwer-Lytton fiction contest gives awards for the worst first lines of novels.  The Literary Review gives its Bad Sex award for the worst writing about The Act.  But there should be an award for the worst music writing.  And especially for rock music writing.  It pretty much all sucks.

I think there’s a reason why.  The part of my brain that parses language seems almost completely disconnected from the chunk that likes rock music.  When I listen to music, I barely listen to the words.  That’s doubly true at concerts.  I just like the feel of it.  The vibration of the bass notes and the assault of the guitar and drums crashing against you.  The bump of all the people.  Jumping around and sweating with strangers who like the same stuff you do.  You’d maybe hate these people in real life, but you’re connected at a concert.  You either get that or you don’t.  What more is there to say?  But I’ll try.

The Thermals were good.  Thanks Hutch, Kathy, and Westin for coming to Birmingham.  Please keep trying to make more music.  Please come back.  We, the audience, had nothing to do with any technical problems with on-stage sound.  We, the audience, had nothing to do with any jerks in the crowd.  We, the audience, enjoyed your show.

Go listen to their music on Grooveshark or whatever.  Decide for yourself.  What more could I say?  If you want to see this show, I think it’ll eventually be featured on APT’s We Have Signal, which I’ve been meaning to do a piece about for a long time.  I’ll get around to it, y’all, I swear.

The opening act, The Shaky Hands, was from Portland, but felt like they might could have been from Tennessee.  Possibly distant cousins – through their second aunts, twice-removed – of Kings of Leon.  Drummers should sweat.  He did.  It was good.

The opening-opening act was p.s. eliot from Birmingham.  Three girls and a guy: somewhat Breeders-esque.  Piercing vocals and quirky charm.  Thanks for letting me hear y’all play.  Keep making more music.  I enjoyed your show.  Maybe talk to the audience some more – I’ll bet we’d like you.

Epic fail.  Murder all rock critics.  Put them out of their misery.  And lawyers.  I’m damned – doubly damned.