The B-Sides Journal: Quantum Mechanics with Floor Plan
Sam Annis
Issue date: 4/30/09 Section: Entertainment
April 22
11:00 a.m.
After waking up much later than planned, I follow the link embedded in the mass e-mail and watch a video of a Floor Plan concert on YouTube. Due to the cameraman's absolutely epic distance from the stage, I don't have the faintest idea as to what instruments are being played, or who is playing them, but the sound quality is pretty good, so I think I'll stop complaining and just listen to the song.
11:03 a.m.
Floor Plan's music began to remind me of a Death Cab for Cutie song, so I pause the video and grab my iPod. After a brief search, I still don't know what song I'm thinking of… it's not "Transatlanticism" though. I abandon my quest and resume listening to Floor Plan, moving from YouTube to Myspace while simultaneously trying to work on a research paper. After a few moments, I stop working on my paper and focus on the lyrics emanating from my computer. I've never heard a song about stem cell research before. I suppose one must be prepared for anything with a band whose sound is described as "Trip-Hop/Experimental/Rap." I'm not too sure what "Trip-Hop" is. A less agile version of "Hip-Hop?" Music for those who love hop, but just can't stand hip?
11:15 a.m. - 9:42 p.m.
Daytime festivities/absolutely nothing to do with this article.
9:43 p.m.
I arrive at the Union. As per normal, the building is pretty dead. I head upstairs to my journalistic perch against the balcony railing and pretend to work on my paper while eavesdropping on a conversation between three religion majors. Apparently, one of their dads went to school with a 12-time "Ugliest Woman in the World" champion. I think that's pretty impressive.
9:46 p.m.
I remember that eavesdropping is rude, and focus my attentions on actually working on my paper.
9:47 p.m.
I forget that eavesdropping is rude and go back to pretending to work on my paper. Looking over the Union's balcony railing, I can see three men in patriotic looking jumpsuits milling about near the stage. I can only assume this is the band. For some reason, I'm reminded of the nihilist electronic group, Autobahn, from The Big Lebowski (sans Peter Stormare and Flea, of course). I suspect that Floor Plan's onesies are just the sort of thing that astronauts in training wear when going into that big spinning machine that makes you throw up all over the place: easy to clean, aerodynamic, and other things having to do with space and vomiting.
10:00 p.m.
The lights go down and I prepare myself for the show. Trying to write in the dark proves difficult. The band takes the stage and introduces themselves to the audience. Then, to my extreme surprise, they introduce a special guest on bass: my editor. Part of me is intrigued (I've never actually seen Matt Lettieri before, so it's kind of cool to know what he looks like now), and part of me is horrified (how can I write an objective review when the guy who has final say on my article is in the band?). I'm briefly distracted from my conundrum when I notice that none of the band members wear shoes. Now, instead of astronauts, they look like huge toddlers.
10:05 p.m.
So far, the music is actually quite relaxing. If you take out the rap vocals, it could almost be a song from the Lost in Translation soundtrack: simple chord structure, ethereal electronic sounds, and a rather trancy groove…it could almost be a buried Pink Floyd track. (When I went back after the show to look at their Myspace, I was proud to see my suppositions were correct. They describe themselves as "Pink Floyd and Jay-Z had a love child, and one of them cheated with Radiohead." That, if you ask me, is pretty funny. Also, pretty danged accurate.)
10:10 p.m.
I wonder if the super loud feedback hum will have a featured solo on every song. Thankfully, the band is taking the disruption better than I am; the Swyers brothers are still dancing around up there like maniacs (now I understand the absence of shoes) and grooving out of their minds to the music they're creating (there is nothing, nothing, that I love more than seeing musicians in love with their music).
10:25 p.m.
The light show gets freaky.
10:35 p.m.
The band sings "Happy Birthday" to Becca, and then prepares us for a trip to the future - at the beginning of the show we were warned of the possibility of time travel - by handing out these 4-foot long, Styrofoam, tubular things to the motley crew of dancers huddled at the foot of the stage. Supposedly, these devices whistle when you swing them around in circles. I don't hear any whistling, but I do see a few people get hit in the head, so I consider it a rousing success. I notice that the future sounds an awful lot like the Rainforest Café.
10:45 p.m.
I'm surprised at how fast the time has gone by. Like I said before, the music can be quite hypnotic… either that or we really did go into the future. The only time I feel out of sync with the performers is between songs. Maybe I'm alone on this, but I would prefer less banter with the audience and more soaring instrumentals.
10:55 p.m.
They announce their last song. Amazingly, they managed to keep their high-energy performance continuous for the entire hour-long set. I probably would've passed out thirty minutes ago. The show ends abruptly when the song closes and lead Swyer announces, "We'll be over here," and points to the merchandise table. Someone throws a light switch. The entire place blazes up like a supernova while the audience disperses like a group of startled rabbits (or maybe I was the only one, but it's more embarrassing to say, "I dispersed like a startled rabbit." Also, can one person disperse by himself? Something to think about).
11:05 p.m. - 12:05 p.m..
Prepare for bed. (Not essential information, but I thought it'd be a good way to close.)
11:00 a.m.
After waking up much later than planned, I follow the link embedded in the mass e-mail and watch a video of a Floor Plan concert on YouTube. Due to the cameraman's absolutely epic distance from the stage, I don't have the faintest idea as to what instruments are being played, or who is playing them, but the sound quality is pretty good, so I think I'll stop complaining and just listen to the song.
11:03 a.m.
Floor Plan's music began to remind me of a Death Cab for Cutie song, so I pause the video and grab my iPod. After a brief search, I still don't know what song I'm thinking of… it's not "Transatlanticism" though. I abandon my quest and resume listening to Floor Plan, moving from YouTube to Myspace while simultaneously trying to work on a research paper. After a few moments, I stop working on my paper and focus on the lyrics emanating from my computer. I've never heard a song about stem cell research before. I suppose one must be prepared for anything with a band whose sound is described as "Trip-Hop/Experimental/Rap." I'm not too sure what "Trip-Hop" is. A less agile version of "Hip-Hop?" Music for those who love hop, but just can't stand hip?
11:15 a.m. - 9:42 p.m.
Daytime festivities/absolutely nothing to do with this article.
9:43 p.m.
I arrive at the Union. As per normal, the building is pretty dead. I head upstairs to my journalistic perch against the balcony railing and pretend to work on my paper while eavesdropping on a conversation between three religion majors. Apparently, one of their dads went to school with a 12-time "Ugliest Woman in the World" champion. I think that's pretty impressive.
9:46 p.m.
I remember that eavesdropping is rude, and focus my attentions on actually working on my paper.
9:47 p.m.
I forget that eavesdropping is rude and go back to pretending to work on my paper. Looking over the Union's balcony railing, I can see three men in patriotic looking jumpsuits milling about near the stage. I can only assume this is the band. For some reason, I'm reminded of the nihilist electronic group, Autobahn, from The Big Lebowski (sans Peter Stormare and Flea, of course). I suspect that Floor Plan's onesies are just the sort of thing that astronauts in training wear when going into that big spinning machine that makes you throw up all over the place: easy to clean, aerodynamic, and other things having to do with space and vomiting.
10:00 p.m.
The lights go down and I prepare myself for the show. Trying to write in the dark proves difficult. The band takes the stage and introduces themselves to the audience. Then, to my extreme surprise, they introduce a special guest on bass: my editor. Part of me is intrigued (I've never actually seen Matt Lettieri before, so it's kind of cool to know what he looks like now), and part of me is horrified (how can I write an objective review when the guy who has final say on my article is in the band?). I'm briefly distracted from my conundrum when I notice that none of the band members wear shoes. Now, instead of astronauts, they look like huge toddlers.
10:05 p.m.
So far, the music is actually quite relaxing. If you take out the rap vocals, it could almost be a song from the Lost in Translation soundtrack: simple chord structure, ethereal electronic sounds, and a rather trancy groove…it could almost be a buried Pink Floyd track. (When I went back after the show to look at their Myspace, I was proud to see my suppositions were correct. They describe themselves as "Pink Floyd and Jay-Z had a love child, and one of them cheated with Radiohead." That, if you ask me, is pretty funny. Also, pretty danged accurate.)
10:10 p.m.
I wonder if the super loud feedback hum will have a featured solo on every song. Thankfully, the band is taking the disruption better than I am; the Swyers brothers are still dancing around up there like maniacs (now I understand the absence of shoes) and grooving out of their minds to the music they're creating (there is nothing, nothing, that I love more than seeing musicians in love with their music).
10:25 p.m.
The light show gets freaky.
10:35 p.m.
The band sings "Happy Birthday" to Becca, and then prepares us for a trip to the future - at the beginning of the show we were warned of the possibility of time travel - by handing out these 4-foot long, Styrofoam, tubular things to the motley crew of dancers huddled at the foot of the stage. Supposedly, these devices whistle when you swing them around in circles. I don't hear any whistling, but I do see a few people get hit in the head, so I consider it a rousing success. I notice that the future sounds an awful lot like the Rainforest Café.
10:45 p.m.
I'm surprised at how fast the time has gone by. Like I said before, the music can be quite hypnotic… either that or we really did go into the future. The only time I feel out of sync with the performers is between songs. Maybe I'm alone on this, but I would prefer less banter with the audience and more soaring instrumentals.
10:55 p.m.
They announce their last song. Amazingly, they managed to keep their high-energy performance continuous for the entire hour-long set. I probably would've passed out thirty minutes ago. The show ends abruptly when the song closes and lead Swyer announces, "We'll be over here," and points to the merchandise table. Someone throws a light switch. The entire place blazes up like a supernova while the audience disperses like a group of startled rabbits (or maybe I was the only one, but it's more embarrassing to say, "I dispersed like a startled rabbit." Also, can one person disperse by himself? Something to think about).
11:05 p.m. - 12:05 p.m..
Prepare for bed. (Not essential information, but I thought it'd be a good way to close.)
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