WITHOUT A PADDLE

Even the band’s official site doesn’t put the music first. When you log onto www.ofarevolution.com, a pop-up to a full ordering window for their CD’s leaps up. The first thing even before you can enter the band’s web home is a hard sell to BUY from them. I like a little more seduction but maybe that’s just me. Tracks from their three studio albums and a couple spins of their new double live set Any Time Now were discouraging as I prepared to see them at The Fillmore. They have a pasteurized sound that makes them nearly indistinguishable from the current crop of singer-songwriter boys. I’m talking John Mayer, Jack Johnson and a host of others I refuse to put to memory. I’ve already lost most of the geometry I learned without giving up precious brain cells to aural fluff like this.

O.A.R. does have a penchant for roots reggae that gives them a slightly different flavor than what’s getting played on FM but it’s often so disingenuous that it makes No Doubt sound like they’re from Kingston. Honestly, should a white college boy from Maryland really ever use the word ‘Zion’ or sing in an island patois? And the endless AB rhyme schemes will wear on the unwary. It is the kind of music where you know that in 30 seconds the aggressively strummed solo acoustic under the singer will give way to the BIG drums and ELECTRIC guitar. Or you know during the loud songs that all the instruments will drop out for a quiet section with just the singer and a single guitar. Even before you’ve heard this music you’ve already heard it a thousand times before. It might not be getting airplay right now but it is calculatedly radio-friendly music that we will all one day hear in the latest ad for the Nissan Pod after the Barenaked Ladies have been tossed aside like dime-a-dance girls.

Still, as a devotee of live music, I live in hope that what makes it onto recordings, even official live releases, is a pale comparison to a band at their best. With a sense of adventure I sailed off towards San Francisco in the midst of the nastiest storm to hit this Fall. As I made it to the top of the stairs inside The Fillmore to grab my customary apple from the washtub, I smiled at the ocean of frat guys, Noxzema girls and shyly hooded freshmen. I felt like a teaching assistant trying to party with his students and doing a really bad job of hiding his discomfort. If being in the crowd at Robert Plant had brought me back to high school then this one dragged me right back to the damp palm terror of junior high. Around so many bubbly, thin, glowingly beautiful people I tend to find the darkest corner in the room and just lurk quietly. And that’s just what I did.

I’m not unsympathetic to O.A.R.’s fans. The need to belong to something at that age is nearly overwhelming and if that something can be different than the thing the Big Corporate Machine is shoving down folks throat this month then all the better. Another group discusses why O.A.R.’s main man, Marc Roberge, is superior to Dave Matthews. Not different, just better. It’s apparent that everyone in the hall feels like they are in on something. Like they got the secret password to the coolest clubhouse of all time. And maybe they have. If I were in college, new to a life outside of parental supervision, then maybe I might better feel what Roberge and Company are laying down.

During the wait I hear several Police songs on the sound system. I wonder to myself why I find it alright when Sting steals from reggae but not when this group does it. Is it just that he’s English? Or is it because he’s a gifted singer who sees the humor in what he’s doing? Maybe it’s because the lyrics are smart and dark and would have sounded fine with or without the island lilt. Before I get too locked up in this internal discussion I hear screaming from the main floor. The last time I heard a sound like it was on Duran Duran’s "Seven and The Ragged Tiger tour." While a passionate fan of a lot of things, I’ve never understood the sheer, high-pitched mania that some artists induce in their audience. The five members of O.A.R. greet the crowd as they walk out to the tune of Marvin Gaye’s “Got To Give It Up” and the sound of their brass balls clanking in their khakis can be heard from a distance.

They work into a low buzzing dub that makes me wonder if the tales of their live prowess have not been overstated. Benj Gerhman, bass player, works in whomping broad strokes and throughout the night will show himself to be the one instrumental standout in the bunch. Roberge starts to sing and the first few words are drowned out by the shrieks. Right off I can see that they are dedicated to throwing a good party. I settle in for a few numbers, each less compelling than the simmering opener. I nod my head affably but find myself thinking of things I need to do when I get home because what I’m hearing just isn’t that compelling. Their form of jamming amounts to extended intros and outros. They are very clean, very professional young men who seem too eager to please.

I like the singing better at the show because I can barely make out the lyrics. What I hadn’t mentioned earlier is Roberge is simply one of the worst lyricists I’ve ever heard. He writes quasi-philosophical story songs. The kind of muddle headed non-thinking thinking person’s music that has made the Indigo Girls and Tori Amos huge. It seems to mean something but if you pull a single thread the whole thing unravels. The bombast and seriousness of the singing and playing makes shallow things seem deep.

When they reach the crowd pleaser “Hey Girl” I cringed. Built from lines that should never have made it out of a coffee stained student journal, he sings:

I took this girl out last night and we left around twelve.
We walked along lonely streets and got to know ourselves.
I like to read, she likes to write.
She likes to sleep, and I like to stay up all night.
My friends say I'm crazy and I agree,
But that's okay cause that's the way she likes to be.

Not long after this another softheaded whammy descends with “Black Rock” which is introduced as being about “a place to hang and do your thing.” Backed by an egregious faux-reggae rhythm, Roberge belts out lines like:

And when you are on your own, not speaking out is like fighting alone
And that is the worst damn way to fight
And when you are scared no more, reach your hand out and just open the door
And that's just what I'm doing tonight.

Yikes.

“Black Rock” is made worse by saxophonist Jerry DePizzo, who’s saccharine playing put a damper on everything he touched. I’m sure he’s a perfectly sturdy musician but his instincts are all lounge act, syrupy and obvious. Maybe horn blowers like Skerik and Galactic's Ben Ellman have ruined me. Even if they haven’t I can’t say that DePizzo’s chops would do much for me. There’s just nothing there.

I hang in for a few more numbers but with each moment I’m fighting ancient fight or flee instincts. As the audience gets more and more worked up I find myself terrified of the B.F. Skinner vibe around me. Just as the band knows what’s expected of them as modern rock performers, the audience knows what to do when the cues arrive. A mention of San Francisco gets a “whoo hooo” and when Roberge punches a line about treating “that lady right” all the girls let out a yell. The roles are so well defined that I can imagine that this scene plays out almost identically every time they play.

As I make my way a young woman I'd met earlier in the night stops me. With wide eyes she says, “You’re not staying for “Crazy Game of Poker?” I politely tell her I’m sorry for the earlier encounter and that this just isn’t my cup of tea. Why piss on someone’s parade while it’s still moving down the boulevard? She waves goodbye and dashes back to catch the opening.

“That Was A Crazy Game of Poker” is endless and annoying, a random assortment of folk bits and predictable roots riffing. That it is their signature tune is fitting. Just because a song is long doesn’t make it an epic. Nor do a lot of verses make it deep:

That was a crazy game of poker
I lost it all
But someday I'll be back again
And I’ll never fold
Never fold.

I don’t begrudge folks going out for a good time but don’t try to convince me that there’s any real artistic merit to it. The world is no richer for it being created. I am deadly certain that Of A Revolution will be huge. They will fill Amphitheaters and Stadiums one day. My instincts are rarely off in this area. The more I dislike a band, the more I feel their existence steals money and time and listeners from worthier music, the greater the chance is they will be cradling a Grammy and thanking God on my television one day.

Dennis Cook
JamBase | World Wide
Go See Live Music!

Editor's Note: O.A.R. seems to be sparking a discussion amongst music fans in our scene. (And in our office!) See this interview we published in August for a different perspective on O.A.R.