NED'S ATOMIC DUSTBIN
9:30 CLUB, WASHINGTON DC
NED'S Atomic Dustbin are in a euphoric state of amphetamine overdrive.
Romping about wearing shit-eating grins, they ecstatically pound out
a sweaty, meteoric melange of melodic grunge.
Why are they so happy? F***ed if i know. The crowd's reaction is mixed
to say the least. There's a small gaggle of fans bouncing along, and
a handful of skimmers in the pit, but much of the audience stands cross-armed,
expressionless as stone. Another contingent is actually hostile, responding
readily to vocalist John Penny's verbal cue, 'let's Start Throwing Things."
Mostly, the "things" are harmless scraps of paper, but at
one point, a full cup of water arcs lazily towards guitarist Gareth
Pring. He successfully dodges the cup, but his guitar is showered by
the falling droplets. Somehow, he laughs it off and continues playing.
Nothing phases these dopey cartoon characters. They love what they're
doing, even if the audience doesn't. Whipping their heads back and forth
without a care for timing, ricocheting around the stage like electrons
in heat. Ned's look like blissfully ignorant rejects from the Metallica
Headbanging Academy. But that probably doesn't bother them either. Penny
grips his mike fist-tight for fear of misplacing it, even though it
is secured in its stand. He's amiable enough, but rather simple. After
energetically bounding through the frenzied "Capital Letters"
(those are the big ones, John), Penny steps back, pauses, shakes his
sweaty head, looks up quizzically, smiles, pauses again, then returns
to the mike. "Whew, all right," he finally musters, then turns
confusedly to Pring, who shrugs, tosses his hair back, and tears into
the next number. Wow, what stage presence.
And why do Ned's need two bass players? None of the basslines are particularly
complex. Maybe neither bassist can remember full songs, so they split
everything up. "You take the two big strings Mat, and I'll play
the little ones." Something like that. It could all be a regal
pisstake, but Ned's don't appear sharp enough to pull off social satire.
So where does that leave us? A bit confused actually - Ned's are too
thrashy for pop and too damn cheery to qualify as punk or metal. Still,
the band pack a mighty biow for alienated youth who seek escape through
card tricks, yo-yos, comic books.
And for the rest of us, Ned's serve as a punchy reminder that rock and
roll was never intended as a cerebral art form.
JON WIEDERHORN