Bang Camaro gives loud-and-clear welcome to '07

January 02, 2007|Matthew Shaer, Globe Correspondent

CAMBRIDGE -- Even the arithmetic was outlandish. By the time the 20 men of Bang Camaro left the stage of the Middle East, at 1 a.m. on New Year's Day, the band had ripped through a half-dozen metal anthems, a ballad, more than 30 guitar solos, hundreds of grunts and yelps, and four mike stand gymnastic routines worthy of a young Sebastian Bach.

"Nightlife commando!," a pair of mustachioed Camaros shouted as the band wound down its 20-minute encore. And this was no apology. It was a call to arms: a rallying cry for the hundreds of kids jammed elbow to elbow into this dark basement, who should have known better than to waste their holiday on exorcising a lifetime of air guitar demons. But if Bang Camaro proved anything in 2006, it was that in Boston, metal -- and testosterone-laden super metal at that -- wasn't dead.

To wit: Just 13 months after conception, the band rose from obscure rawk fraternity to sought-after headliners, media darlings, recipients of a handful of Boston Music Awards nominations and eight -- count 'em -- Noise Award nods. So Sunday's show felt exceptionally well-timed. It was a messy victory lap; it was also, cofounder Bryn Bennett explained, with a few choice expletives, a cap-off to a very good year.

Slated for an 11:45 p.m. set, the band didn't take the stage until seconds before midnight, emerging, guitars in hand, from behind a wide white curtain. First on the to-do list: count down the last 10 seconds of 2006. Also, chug a few beers, issue a few commands -- "You're gonna like this one!" -- and slam through a few rousing drum rolls.

At 12:20 a.m., after delivering a (relatively) sobering rendition of a power ballad named "The Ballad," the Camaros surveyed the crowd. More screams were issued. On then to a screeching rendition of "Push, Push (Lady Lightning)," drowned in distortion, and framed by a brawny power chord vamp.

A bit past 12:30 a.m., the Camaros ducked out for their first encore, leaving behind a sea of raised fists. They returned dutifully, seconds later, guitars still strapped to their chests. For his part, drummer Andy Dole, barely visible at the back of the stage, looked satisfied.

And why not? At some point in 2006, the Camaros had completed that career trajectory peculiar to Paris Hilton, a handful of amateur musicians, and really killer metal bands: They'd ceased to be a gimmick and had become, instead, a spectacle.