Point: My Band, The Jacobins, Slays with Unparalleled Heaviosity
by John Taraborelli
A lot of rock bands are into the music for the fame, the money, the women, the piles of free, pharmaceutical-grade coke—and I can understand that mentality. Those are the kinds of things they care about, but not the Jacobins; we care about one thing above all: melting your face.
You see, the melting of faces has been rock's noblest and most transcendent aim since the dawn of time, and the Jacobins are proud to carry on the esteemed work of our predecessors. Our branch on the tree of rock n roll grows out from the limbs of Sonic Youth, Black Flag, and Black Sabbath—all bands known to melt a face or two in their time. Know that when we invoke the rockage laid down by these hallowed forbears of total face-meltitudiny, we intend to honor their heritage.
When I say that the melting of faces is our highest achievement, do not think that we are so foolish as to neglect the many other facets of our top-notch slayery. I would say that our goals, in order, are 1) melting your face, 2) blowing your mind, 3) causing you to “lose your shit,” 4) rocking your soul, and 5) making you want to make babies with us (preferably females only, though, in a drought, who knows what happens?). Such is the depth of the ocean of our heaviosity, and mighty is the current that crashes it upon the shores of your love.
You may ask, what could the recipe possibly be for such a divine cocktail of flaming hot rocknostification? Well, each ingredient gives the dish its own flavor, and it is a dish best served hot out of the oven of rock. Our drummer, Greg, brings the thunder with unprecedented thumpery. If it was possible to take thunder and condense it into mountain form, creating an actual mountain of thunder to be henceforth known as Mount Thunder, Greg would most certainly sit atop its summit, and hurl lightning bolts down upon peasant goatherds. Nick, our lead guitarist and singer, creates radioactive isotopes of riffification once thought to only be stable in laboratories, but now known to be found in extreme circumstances of nature, such as the nature of our killer rock. Our other guitarist/vocalist, Ben, seeks a higher level of shreddery in which the master needs only four strings to do the work of six, resulting in a potent distillation of supreme rockohol. For my part, on bass I lay down the most rock solid groovessence with the greatest of ease, much as the mighty Mississippi deposits its mineral rich silt way down in the Delta. So you see, we are more than amply equipped for the task of rocking your whole entire life, as well as those of your progeny.
The next time you have the distinct opportunity to see us unleash our maelstrom of face-meltitudinousness at the Living Room, you are sure to be astounded, along with the other seven people not including Ben's brother, not only by our unmistakably masculine sexability, but also the astounding heights of slaytacular heaviosity to which we ascend, like a noble eagle clutching his quarry in his razor-sharp talons of body-rocking shredditude.
Counterpoint: Your Band, The Jacobins, Are Pretty Much The Worst Band I’ve Ever Seen
By Eric Smith
This will be the last time I’m guilt-tripped into seeing your band, the Jacobins, play yet another show at midnight at the Living Room along with your three most loyal friends who also don’t have jobs, and I make no apologies.
I am at a loss to explain how four guys with an obviously deep and nuanced appreciation for music and music history can write and play what sounds like Lou Reed’s Metal Machine Music without all those pesky catchy parts, nor can I explain how you ended a decent night of rock n roll revelry by being even worse than the three terrible bands that preceded you, seemingly without feeling the slightest bit guilty. I want my five dollars back.
You’ve explained your supposed musical references to me many times, thank you, and I fully understand that you think you sound like The Fall; however, The Fall formed in late 70s Manchester, England, during a tumultuous time of musical revolution, while you guys formed in the break room of Spardello’s. I would say that your brand of goomba Sonic Youth dago-rock is a blight on North Providence, but the less said about that town the better.
In previous critiques of your shitty band I likened your sound to that of the jam sessions that must have taken place in the interim between Ian Curtis’ demise and the formation of New Order, but I believe this now to be an all too polite observation. Maybe you should take another cue from the late Joy Division front man, and that is to say that you should hang yourselves.
I’m also glad that your guitarist got to experiment with his new digital effects pedal all night. I’m not sure what the factory presets were called but I came to know them as “Shrill,” “Shriek-y” and “I’m gonna go wait in the car.”
I am fully aware of, and appreciate the history of avant musicians altering their instruments à la Mark Sandman’s two-string bass, and Lee Ranaldo’s detuned and modified guitars, however, the suckiness your guitarist aspired to with just four strings could be achieved even easier with none at all. In fact, why doesn’t he just stay home next time?
Also, I scoff at your claims of shreddery. In regards to your own bass “playing,” you seemed to spend most of the show sifting through a fog of Miller High Life in a futile attempt to remember such bass fundamentals as “Keeping Your Strap On” and “Not Getting Tangled In Your Own Cable.” I’m pretty sure professional bassist Billy Sheehan knew how to keep his fucking strap on.
For a band that practices an much as you say you do, you have a remarkable lack of onstage awareness and I believe that your band couldn’t find a groove if it was crammed down a stripper’s thong. Musically, you guys have the chemistry of a Long Island Iced Tea, that is to say you are made up of several inherently good elements that were never meant to be combined, such as the algorithmical drumming of Lightning Bolt, the pretty-boy insouciance of the Strokes, and that guy from Sideways.
As to your alleged overwhelming heaviness, your music is as heavy as an issue of People magazine, as weighty as a pamphlet on male prostate cancer, and about as enjoyable as the latter.
In conclusion, for these reasons stated above and for many, many more that I can’t bring myself to remember, your band, The Jacobins, are pretty much the worst band I have ever seen.
