This is the sixth installment in “Music Mondays,” a new weekly music column from WHRC, the Bi-Co’s student-run community radio. Featuring music news, album and concert reviews, playlists, recommendations, and more.
I joined my friends last weekend on a somewhat spontaneous trip to Lancaster, Pennsylvania to see a band by the lovely name of Frog — “joined” being the operative word here, as prior to the concert, I knew about one and a half songs by the group. My friends, however, are diehards. The newness — the unknowing — of the whole situation was essential to the experience I had, but we’ll return to this.
As for Frog, they are an indie rock band (whatever that means) from New Rochelle, NY, crafting melodies with equal portions of folk and emo twang. The slight whine of lead singer Daniel Bateman’s voice perfectly walks this line, never leading the listener into too-familiar territory. As much as I could continue to talk about the music, however, it was the atmosphere of the event as a whole that made the evening.
Upon arrival at West Art, the church-turned-community-arts-space where the concert was held, we had to first maneuver in two right turns around the building, following hand drawn signs to the “back” entrance. This door, however, did not lead directly to the event space; we were first greeted by a pink stairwell leading off to a bathroom covered in funky mirrors, a coffee shop/bar/reading nook, and a theatre space where the local troupe was putting on Our Town (of course). By the time we went upstairs to the actual event space, it felt as if we had been introduced to the whole arts underbelly of Lancaster, PA — not something I priorly was aware existed, might I add.
When Frog’s set started, we were swaying semi to the back, dispersedly surrounded by millennials bobbing their heads with their beers in hand. Not long passed before we knew we needed to make a quick exodus from this island of nonchalance; too long and we’d be swallowed by flannel. Fate obviously knew we needed some fun, though, as we managed to weasel into the far corner by the stage where there was a swath of college-age kids dancing their hearts out.
The real center of the night was not just the general mass of dancing people, but a specific group of boys directly in front of us. Each of them was so individually into the music while also clearly being incredibly present in this moment with their friends. I overheard at one point the tall, dark-haired one coordinating when to all spin around in a circle. At times, it felt like I was there to watch them, with the music as purely a soundtrack. This is not testament to the music being boring; if anything, it is testament to the music succeeding in (arguably) the number one goal of folk: to nourish community. Suddenly, my own dancing was not just dancing, but feeding this larger joy extending over us all. Here is where my lack of familiarity with the band really came into play. Each next moment was a mystery: what would they sing next, how would the boys dance next?
The show culminated with the most magical luck of all, as the band heard me call out my song suggestion of “Judy Garland,” the one song of theirs I actually knew. The night ended with the song’s unbridled jangle, rumbling flair, and catalyzing sense of movement. And I had played a part. On the car ride home, all I could think about was that group of boys jumping together. Now, as I write this article on a bus, listening to “Judy Garland” in my headphones, I think of us all jumping together under the strung-up fairy lights.
