i like to think i’m not really a State Radio kind of girl. they’re frat boy punk to my androgynous indie, white boy reggae to my gay girl folk. but we went to State Radio’s show last Thursday night at Toad’s Place as a special birthday treat for Lauren who has a frat boy niche in her musical heart (a place where O.A.R and Dispatch live in harmony).

as expected, the under-18 fenced-off section was belly-to-ass packed–all the high school boys trying awkwardly to maintain their macho cool while skin to skin with other boys with the few girls in the crowd not minding the congestion.

a few den mothers sat white-knuckled, clutching their purses, on the hard benches at the back. god bless them for compromising.

we slipped over to the over-21 half of the building which was not nearly as packed. only a few people were vying for position at the front of the stage while the rest of us were sitting at tables and sipping beer.

Mean Creek, the opening act, was alright. on the alterna-pop-rock scale, zero being Belle and Sebastian and ten being Nickelback, they were about a six–no, a five since they have male/female vocal harmonies. i think i could even like them on cd. the crowd gave them a little love but there was a palpable sense of relief doused in anticipation once they left the stage. it didn’t take long for the restless European-style soccer chants to start, the melodic “State Ray-Dee-OH, State Ray-Dee-OH” begging the band to come out.

i’ll admit it–the chants pulled at the frat boy inside. the thick fog of restless eagerness was seeping into my pores, and i was ready for the white-fro guy to come out and sing.

and when he came out, the room sizzled like grease in a hot frying pan.

“this song’s called Guantanamo,” he said.

The weathervanes are charging down the hill,
In some quixotic Calvary,
And the war machine is shaking in its sleep
And the homesick ghost of the Geronimo,
I fear is taking all the absinthe,
There must be another way.
Since Geneva’s nearly drowned,
Since the tinsmith was gagged and bound,
Since the rich boys got away,
Two shovels and a skull of the widower brave.

it was a sound bigger than the band’s three pieces, a passion more than just the sweat dripping from their noses. couldn’t help but get into that, couldn’t help but clap, couldn’t help but sing to the chorus once i got it down.

right after that first song, i knew it was more than just a frat boy fist-pump. as much as i try not to, i actually love this band. they don’t write to have something to play–the music is just a fun, convenient method of transmission. they are all about their message, all about shining the light on injustice and pushing people to do something about it.

i saw it most clearly when they played Camilo, their big song, the song whose first strum makes the crowd explode.

Twenty days in a concrete fallout
What life have i to take your own
Oh my country won’t you call out
Doorbells are ringing with boxes of bones
And from another land’s war torn corners
To a prison cell in my own
Punish me for not taking your orders
But don’t lock me up for not leavin’ my home

the lights flashed like camera bulbs, only brighter, so i caught the crowd in frozen moments.

*flash*

a kid on the other side of the fence, maybe 16, head tilted back, short hair clumped in random points with sweat, one fist in the air. lost. eyes closed, mouth half open, feet intently flat like the music was coming up through the floor and if he moved too much he’d miss it.

*flash*

a guy bobbing, but not bouncing–couldn’t spill the cup of beer. head tilted forward towards the floor, curly hair a thick indie mop, lip ring only noticeable because he sings the words, scruffy short facial hair. lost. eyes closed, head shakes back and forth as the guitar builds to the chorus.

*flash*

body held up above the crowd on a table of silhouetted hands and arms. face upside down, mouth hanging in a giant forever smile.

*

the song ended with a lingering guitar note and an exhausted, happy gasp from everyone all at once. actually, they all did. and every time the light flashed, i caught another kid in that place where the music was telling him a secret. a kid swaying slowly to a fast song. a kid pumping his fist and shouting

‘Cause we’re hiding in the wings, we’re the super neocons.
We got bombs and they got barrels of gasoline. Oh yeah! Oh yeah!

they all knew every word, and the big-haired front man stepped away from the mic and let them take over every once in awhile. it was contagious. i sang, and i didn’t even know most of the words but it worked out anyhow.

for a split second, i wondered if the message was getting through, if the word-shouting would translate into active protest, into dinner table arguments, into letters to senators. but then i realized that it didn’t matter. the boys on stage were doing what they could. you can hope it keeps boiling, but it’s not up them or me what anyone else does with their pot of passion.

the best we can do is to say what we mean, and State Radio did that all night.

“this one’s about the war in Iraq.”

“this song’s about the genocide happening in Darfur.”

they weren’t downers, but they pissed you off in a very empowering way. every song had a message, and State Radio was not afraid of being that message completely.

and i was totally into it. i guess i am a State Radio kind of girl.