Now, most reviews, I enjoy a leisurely stroll through a sentence or two, stopping to smell peculiar roses grown from the usually, amiable surroundings of the noted venue. Not this time. Let’s just say my superfluously sarcastic tone will serve as a catalyst whose intentions are merely to rebut the overly confident and professionally exhausting misconceptions seemingly harbored by…basically everyone I met on the MIT campus; that’s unfair, there was one kid sitting, cross-legged on a table, checking tickets. I wish I got his name; he actually seemed pleased to help out. However, in summation, MIT (believe it or not) averages out to a sub-par, irrational, mess of “numbers” all but ostracizing their own benefactors with a righteous lack of information, anchored by the fact that you, said benefactor, has paid to see this show. Ok, that was fun.
On to something more meaningful, something less aesthetic. As my photographer and I take our seats, (refer to the first paragraph for a hint as to why there are no pictures) members from A Rocket to the Moon take the stage. The popularly styled barrage of upbeat hooks and pre-Bieber teeny bopping lyrics quickly possess the stage, as audience members in the bleachers find their ears perking up, and the addictive melodies pulling them to their feet. Any stragglers willing to give in to the infectious vibes were probably stunned at how quickly they we’re ushered to the floor. As the energy surrounding the stage plateaus and the pleasantries of opening a show wear off, a band like A Rocket to the Moon certainly knows how to keep it interesting, going into a timely rendition of “Free Falling,” backed by a chorus of audience members, and believably, security guards! It’s bands like these that remind us of how music unifies us through our most basic of emotions without any reference to looks or situational infidelities. With the proclamation “the Rejects are up next!” A Rocket to the Moon exits the stage as roadies swarm in, tearing down and tuning up.
With the members of the band nowhere in sight, lights dim and a solid…mmm, let’s say, dance beat, permeates the air. Space filling, tension building, bump and grind beats. Honestly flabbergasted by the whole to-do of it all, I sit back, put up my feet and get prepared for an act I’ve personally been in the market to see for a while now. Out of the gates and onto the stage, lead singer/bassist, Tyson Ritter, comes barreling into view on a herald of “Swing, Swing,” warranting my excitement for these self-proclaimed dissenters. Ritter seems, oddly on top of his game, as if the cause for the formulation of the name The All-American Rejects is still, burning a hole in his head. He clutches the microphone like a wound and holds nothing back as he relieves himself of the bass guitar. This is wild. Ritter, who seems so unassuming and charming, hits a rather dissonant chord with his bantering interludes about songs like “Dirty Little Secret”, obviously striking a nerve with certain members of the staff. This puts a smile on my face and gives my cohort and I a good laugh of relief. This is what music is about. Feeling the moments and living within them. Something, I feel as though Ritter and all of the guys from the Rejects whole-heartedly understand after seeing such a performance. I almost feel bad for an audience catching them on a happy day ; the Rejects sure know how to share their convictions.
