Why I can't tell you why this band rules.
Driving home from a really tremendous rock show is an adrenaline-fueled bummer for me. I am so hopped up on the rocky goodness that I can fairly stay strapped into my Honda, buzzing with all of the things I want to pour out into this blog -- and knowing damn well that I won't, because I can't. Because the saddest truism for a writer like me is that I cannot find the words to say why I love the music that I love. The emotion does not easily translate to the written word, nor does the giddiness, the sore glutes that come from rocking out as violently as is possible on a barstool, the can't-hardly-wait anticipation of "OH MY GOD THAT SONG IS AMAZING WHEN ARE THEY GOING TO RELEASE IT?!" Punctuation is so cumbersome to the 14-year-old I become in the wake of a show like the one Apes of Wrath played on October 9th at Tin Can Alehouse in San Diego.
The venue, bless it's heart, was as nondescript and tiny as one could imagine, and my companion assured me the sound was atrocious. I myself do not really care about stuff like bass levels or other minutiae of audio amplification, as those things have never stopped me from getting my face rocked off. Going to the women's restroom necessitates stepping almost right onto the stage, or at least the invisible border that delineates the stage from the regular old floor. Opening acts the Sunday Times and the Howls put on energetic and entertaining sets, especially the latter, who handed out burned copies of their homemade CD with their website name written in Marks-a-Lot. The music reminded me of early Wilco, and the singer was sort of like Whiskeytown era-Ryan Adams (but without the crazy). I especially dug the song "Dead Men Tell No Lies". The adorable factor went through the roof when the singer announced that this was their first show since their drummer turned 21. (Adorable to me, anyway, since 99% of the crowd wasn't far ahead of him.)