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The last time I stepped inside NYC's Bowery Poetry Club was in 2002; I was 23 and looking for a job. The Club was a mediocre joint at best, defined by chaotically-painted walls and a simply-adorned, small-sized bar area -- just perfect for a SoHo crowd in search of something lesser. I approached the cutesy girl behind the bar and asked if they were hiring. They weren't, and she said it with more than a hint of you're-not-the-first-person-to-ask-me-for-a-job pompousness. I hated her and the place itself from that point on.
Fast-forward a good four years: I've gotten over my pointless, aching bitterness about the stupid job and returned to the Bowery Poetry Club. This time, I'm not a straight-off-the-street sketch of a newbie trying desperately to find his way. I'm a journalist, there to catch a young, up-and-coming band by the name of Quintus.
It's been a while since college. After about five years in the real world, you start to examine the gap between who, or what, you were then and the creature you've become. That's why it's slightly daunting to watch a NYC-based five-piece look as fresh faced as the day they were born. Youth tends to attract youth, and droves of NYU-ish pleasure seekers packed the room -- a mix of both the Abercrombies and the Airwalks. Differences aside, the audience seemed to take to the Quintus sound: a mix that at once exudes vibrant jolts of both Stevie Wonder and the Strokes.
And like the pop-soul of Wonder in the '60s and the retro-garage kick of the Strokes in the '00s, Quintus has a life-loving energy that's a pleasure to watch. Lead vocalist/guitarist Reuben Chess hit the microphone with gutsy vocals and arrogant riffs, while Dan Kreiger came through with jazzed-up keyboard measures. Guitarist Ari Friedman, bassist David Dawda, and drummer Michael Riddleberger all looked comfortable in their flesh as they pounded drums and plucked guitars to tunes about love ("All the Love in the World"), life ("Walkin' on Air"), and enjoying the all-important wee hours ("Night Owl").
The impression I got from scanning the room (which became increasingly packed as the set went on) is that Quintus is a pop group playing it up for a jam-band crowd. It's not that these guys aspire to be Phish or the Grateful Dead; it's just that Quintus -- who, themselves, characterize their music as something of the pop persuasion -- get the people dancing and drinking with a style that's both tenderly hip and inescapably edgy.
It will take time for Quintus' talent to reach beyond the walls of their college kingdom. They're a great act with a sound that shows all the promise of a big seller that hasn't yet hit its point of maturation. But who the hell needs a maturation point? Did the Beatles wait for theirs? Did the Ramones? The listeners this night were primarily ages 20 to 25, indulging their fledgling existence and perfecting the fine art of not giving a fuck. Matching that attitude, Quintus played song after song about matters of the heart -- delivering each with a carefree self-assurance that was all about a good time.
Smiles on the faces of the band members began to glow more and more as the audience held tight to their beer bottles, boyfriends, and girlfriends. Friends shouted the band members' names from the floor, and hoots and hollers ran rampant. I left the Club a little after 12:30 a.m. and hopped on a train to upstate New York. I would get there late, and knew it would be tough to get up in the morning. But, for the first time in a long time, I really didn't care.
— 20 July 2006
