Far, far away, from the dank shadows of Hillcrest, come the children of the night. Their eyes are glazed over and hungry, in pursuit of passing another Friday night sedated.
They flock to a tiny, College Area club called the Oblivion. The rest of the night is a blur of live bands, blinding red lipstick and the pungent smell of stale cigarettes and freshly dyed black hair. Caught somewhere in the uproar was San Diego’s Antenna.
The sceny turn-out gathered in the black-lighted room, swaying their skinny, questionably heroin-wedded bodies to the loud and raucous punk-rock bands that played. One, Sluts of Oxford, made an impression; such an impression to avoid ever seeing them again. The cool thing to do was to scream as if you’re a cross between a dying Wicked Witch of the West and a cat caught in a blender.
Don’t forget to include “f?k” in whatever you say. Other cool things at the show were to stand around, look extremely unapproachable and bring along your less than 6-month-old baby.
But it wasn’t until Antenna played that music finally reared its face. The time neared half past 11 as the quantity of freaks lessened. Though the band played to a smaller crowd, it set the stage and filled the room with an impressive journey of noise and musical ambiance. A mini-slideshow clicked different images above guitarists Jon Martin, San Diego State University graduate Ryan Smith and SDSU graduating senior Mike Owen, whose sounds meshed tastefully with the drumbeats of Adam Grey, also an alumnus of SDSU.
Each member came in at different measures, playing on top of, behind and in front of each other, fusing into one. Expect Antenna’s shows to include one lengthy piece of many components.
“What we’re trying to do is create a field,” Owen said. “You know how antennas create electric fields around them? All of us are trying to create this field that’s going to somehow touch people in some kind of way.
“But it only can happen if you pay attention. That’s essential. You pay your attention ? that’s the price.”
Their poise was heads down, each fixating his eyes on one random spot on the stage. It was clear that any attitude of pompous pretense ? like the bands before them ? was absent. Their composure seemed humble; they didn’t have to resort to jumping around and screaming expletives at the world to get the audience’s attention.
Still, they observed the evening with mediocre interest.
“Tonight was a big, jumbled bowl of Alphabits that were sitting too long and got mushy,” Smith said. “You could still eat them and all, but they’re just not as good as Frosted Mini-Wheats.”
