Blast intern Morgan Lawrence is following the Foo Fighters from Washington, to New York, to Newark and back home to Boston. This is part three of her four-part series.

NEWARK, N.J. — After a three-block walk, a train ride, and then another 15-minute trek through Brooklyn, it seemed that Jersey was all too rapidly approaching. All told, I got about 3 hours of sleep, waking up to throw my hair into a messy ponytail and don my coat to ward off the exhaustion chills. My friend, a New York resident, proved a kind and able guide through the New York subway system (as well as, I should add, the owner of the world’s most comfortable cot). She was kind enough to make sure that despite the efforts of my heavy eyelids I did not fall asleep on the subway – and, even if I did, that I wouldn’t miss my stop.

Despite the fact that my eyes fought to close without my permission and I felt slightly delirious, I will say this: the Starbucks at 42nd and 8th makes a mean pumpkin spice latte – a venti with soy and an extra shot, to be precise. I don’t know how they do it, but by the time I finished it off (in record time) I felt positively human again, actually ready to face a day of hardcore waiting and 3 hours of rocking out.

What I wasn’t ready for, though, was Newark. To be honest, the thought of showing up to a venue first was, for the first time, totally unappealing to me – mostly the fact that I’d be sitting outside a building in Newark I’d never been to before, alone. Thus, I hedged, sitting in the ‘bucks for far longer than I ever would have on the morning of a concert otherwise. Frankly I couldn’t be sure that the Canadian girls I’d met at Madison Square Garden, who would be continuing on the Northeast route as well, would be there at 9 am as they’d promised, and I couldn’t see the line in Newark competing with that of New York. I decided to head out with enough time to catch, at the latest, a 10 am light rail to Newark Penn Station.

It was a gorgeous day when I stepped off the train and started the brief walk to the venue. Gratefully it stayed that way, allowing us to sun like cats on the makeshift barricades that kept us clustered around the arena entrance for the day. The tour-traditional searches for food and bathrooms were short-lived, though, as we realized that Newark isn’t exactly somewhere you go for a healthy walk or to “explore”. The McDonald’s we found two blocks away proved to be an adventure enough – we didn’t go back. Our attempts to see the band as they went in for soundcheck proved similarly fruitless, although we did successfully chat with some very friendly crew, who recognized us from the nights before.

As time wore on, though, things got…weird. I suppose in concert lines this is bound to happen, but this was just strange. First of all, we in the front had been given a pretty wide berth, more of a semi-circle (a pen, if you will) of barricade in which to stay. Rather than protectively sitting in a single-file formation, the first twenty-five or so were milling around, out of order. This seemed to both confuse people into thinking that there was no “line” (causing them to try to hop the barricade and join us) and allow people to pretend they didn’t know it was a line. I ended up being the only one willing to tell those people that the end of the line was that way, thank you very much. Tensions were bubbling up and the formerly pleasant and casual atmosphere was starting to feel kind of threatening – there is nothing to dread so much in line for a show as disorganization, because someone is going to get burned.

And that’s probably why my sharpie hand-numbering system got so out of control. It was never intended to be law. It was to discourage people from cutting or letting 12 friends join them in line (at least without the permission of the people behind them). In light of the news we received that we’d be entering through 4 different doors instead of the standard 1, the two guys who had shown up early that morning took charge, trying to pre-coordinate, ordering that everyone line up according to their number. I wound up second to go through the 3rd door. This technically put me behind two other guys who had claimed to want right corner. I realized I’d be lucky if I’d get second or third off the barricade, let alone my corner spot. I was the most stressed out I’d been all tour so far, sitting there and realizing that my spot – or the loss thereof – was no one’s fault but my own, and I was going to have to deal. And then, suddenly, the doors opened, and all thoughts disappeared.

I rushed forward whenever I got a break, through the ticket checkers and the wristband station (painfully slow!), until I was in the clear, finally realizing that despite their calls of “Don’t run!” they couldn’t do a damn thing to stop me. I jogged for it – only to be passed by my barricade neighbor from the past two shows. Damn it. I leaned halfway over the barricade when I finally reached it, half-relieved and half wired on adrenaline. I tried breathlessly to yell at him: “You’d outrun me? You’d outrun your friend?”. Still, at least I was in the same spot I’d been in the night before, and that was much more than I’d been able to hope for only a few short minutes ago.

The Joy Formidable was back to their full five-song set, making sure to comment that this was their second to last show and how sorry thy were to see the tour end. I do think singer Ritzy Byan, and perhaps the band in general, was more than a bit taken aback by how empty the stands were as they began their set. The former mentioned how huge the building was and, at one point, noted how quiet it became as she sang a verse with all the instruments muted. She was right – it was the quietest an arena had been all tour. While I didn’t notice any anger or bitterness in her tone, or any change in their performance as a whole, when she talked about “Whirring” — the final song that always features a 5-minute digression – she seemed to almost smirk when she said “We’re going to keep this short and sweet”. Whatever the case, as they left the stage, they left behind them once again the impression that they are a very solid band for whom this is quite probably just the beginning, not the end.

Next up, of course, was Social Distortion. Mike Ness seemed to add even more swagger to his already super-tough persona during this time around. He traded in his traditional sprays of spit at the microphone in favor of full-on loogies to the stage and bantered sarcastically with the audience all the while. “This is a happy song,” he said at one point, “It’s called ‘Machine Gun Blues’”. Later he claimed to notice a lot of crazy people in the audience, adding, “All of New Jersey is crazy”. His “crazy”, though, was dragged out with a kind of Fonz-like cool that made it evident that, coming from Mike Ness, that was a compliment. When the applause wasn’t immediate, he repeated, “Come on, motherfuckers, I said ‘all of New Jersey is crazy,’” – proving that, if nothing else, when Mike Ness gives you a compliment, you take it. This wasn’t quite the best part of their set, however. It wasn’t even when guitarist Johnny “2 Bags” Wickersham, after two shows with not so much as a glance anywhere but outward, finally raised his head and looked at us in the front row, sending picks and smiles our way during “Story of My Life”. No, it was when, toward the end of the set, a slow and familiar riff emitted from Mike’s guitar. I once again told myself it was not their ballad “Ball and Chain” (a much-lamented fact by everyone I spoke to) but something familiar-sounding that they had been playing all along. … Except it was “Ball and Chain”. I gleefully sang along and marveled at how this one song seemed to change the whole tone and pace of their set. I was almost surprised when Mike said “You know what I want to do right now? I want to sing a Johnny Cash song,” meaning their set-closing number was about to begin. Without a doubt Social D had bested themselves, and it was fun as hell to watch.

And then, of course, it was time for the Foo Fighters. I was anxiously bouncing on the balls of my feet as the band walked onstage, still partially hidden behind the huge otherworldly light fixtures. Three shows in and this hadn’t gotten old in the least- if anything, it had gotten better.

And it was about to get better still. The energy that the other performers had shown so far was only emphasized by the main attraction, and they weren’t leaving any doubt about that. “Call your boss and tell him you have irritable bowel syndrome or something,” Dave commanded, “it’s gonna be a long fuckin’ night!”. His banter with the audience, and with his band mates, continued at a remarkably high level. Some guys I’d met in line who had been determined to be noticed for their signs for Nate – “Nate is a Wizard!” “OH GOD NATE” – were in fact noticed, with Dave chiding them for their Sharpie-and-posterboard handiwork: “I can see how much work you put into it”. He shared an anecdote about Pat Smear coming to him earlier that day, hung over, and what his advice for the guitarist had been: “Champagne, motherfucker!”. Smear brandished his glass appropriately before dissolving into a fit of laughter. “How you feeling now?” Dave asked, to which Pat could only manage to respond “You’re cracking me up tonight!” At this Dave smiled and noted that if he was making Pat Smear laugh he knew he was at least doing alright.

This continued during, what else, band introductions. When an absolute wall of noise arose from the crowd in honor of Taylor Hawkins, causing him to, childlike, hide his head in his stick-thin arms in embarrassment, Dave teased him that he had quite the little fan club going in Newark. He mentioned that if he made his fan club shirtless, he’d be a “fuckin’ millionaire.” Immediately Taylor shot back “I already am a millionaire,” pausing before quickly adding “…thanks to this guy right here, Dave Grohl!” cueing the loud applause for the band’s founder, lead singer, guitarist, etc. After it finally died down, Dave took to the mic and jokingly shook his head as if disapproving. “I really hate the attention,” he said, “it bums me out.”

During “Monkey Wrench”, introducing the lights-out digression that the band always inserted just before Dave screamed his signature lines, the front man shared an anecdote about going to see Prince in concert, who had done the same thing. Apparently Prince had reasoned that the audience seemed too self-conscious, looking at one another too much. Instead of all that, Dave said, we should just sit back and listen. Despite the fact that I’d been through this two times before, I made an effort to do just that. I stopped looking at individual band members, or even the faces of the crowd around me, and simply looked up: at the light fixtures, at the waving cell phone lights and tiny flames that stood out like stars amongst the darkened stands. I closed my eyes, even, simply appreciating the wave of sound that washed over me from the speakers. Yeah, I thought, maybe Dave and Prince were on to something.

The show closed with an encore, of course, but not before Dave and Taylor goaded the audience into asking for more songs – via night vision camera footage, projected onto the screens that hovered above the stage. After working their way up from “one more song” to seven, Dave pretending all the while that he simply couldn’t play that many, the front man triumphantly emerged from backstage, acoustic guitar in hand. Smiling, he marched out to the platform at the end of the arena once again.

Despite the band’s adherence to their, admittedly powerful, same set list for the majority of the tour, Newark was an occasion on which we got something a little different, and something definitely remarkable. New York had Joan Jett, but Newark had the reintroduction of Bob Mould – not just on “Dear Rosemary” but, for the first time in my experience, “I Should Have Known,” the heavy and emotional track off the new record that at least partially references the death of Kurt Cobain. It truly speaks to the power of the performers that after a high-octane set that encourages jumping, headbanging, moshing, and, of course, screaming, a sense of gravity could immediately descend upon the arena at the drop of a hat. As if a switch had been flipped, thousands of people quieted down and were fittingly mesmerized by the presence before them. The flashing lights and dancing screens were gone; they were replaced only by solid, stationary beams in various hues of blue and green, falling over Dave Grohl and Co. as they stood (for once) in place until song’s end.

And then, of course, was “Everlong.” It was here that Dave addressed something that I’d been wondering about since my first show: their ever-expanding catalogue and an already jam-packed set. “We’ll go home, like we always do, and make another record,” he said. “And then we’ll come back. And when we do, we’ll try as hard as we fuckin’ can to play for four fuckin’ hours.” He paused, and then added, with almost startling solemnity and sincerity, “Because anything less would be not enough.”

It was at this show, and at the end of this encore, that I became convinced that I was flattering myself to think that anyone cared whether or not I was going to the next show. As such, I decided not to hold up the “See you in Boston!” sign that I’d fashioned for this occasion. So it was to my absolute surprise that Pat Smear met my eyes after the encore and mouthed “Boston?!” I grinned back full force and yelled “YES!” — as if I would miss it for the world.

Blast intern Morgan Lawrence is following the Foo Fighters from Washington, to New York, to Newark and back home to Boston. This is part two of her four-part series.

NEW YORK — The city that never sleeps, except between the hours of 1 and 5 a.m. You learn that pretty quickly when you frequent the 1 am Peter Pan/Greyhound bus from Boston to the Port Authority. Despite the fact that the schedule dictates that the bus should arrive around 5:30, the complete lack of traffic in the wee hours (especially on weekdays) means that the 4.5-hour bus ride actually gets in anywhere between 3.5 and 4 hours after departure. Let me emphasize again: nothing is open during these hours, except the Tick Tock Diner on 34th and 8th. So basically if you’re not up for a big stack of pancakes and a 10-block walk that early in the morning to get them, you’re royally fucked, and will be spending a lot of quality time with the dirty bus terminal floor.

Knowing this, I nonetheless chose that bus to get me into the city for my second Foo Fighters show. My original plan was to get to the venue (every venue, in fact – yeah, I was kind of optimistic and unrealistic when I made these plans) by 6 am. I soon realized, though, that sitting outside a venue in New York City, potentially alone, in the dark, was not the best course of action. And so it was that I found myself standing outside a Starbucks on 42nd street at 5:29 a.m., waiting for 5:30 or whenever the employees felt it was appropriate to open the door. As I waited, I was passed by a friendly and well-meaning man who quite clearly thought I was some form of homeless (something that I should really be accustomed to at this point with the traveling hours I keep).

Anyway, I killed time drinking coffee (my sleep schedule being completely through the wringer, as I’d slept from 8:30 in the morning until 5 p.m. as soon as I’d gotten back to Boston from DC), writing up this bullshit, and waiting for the sun to rise before I trekked over to MSG around 7. Gratefully, although somewhat to my surprise, I found my barricade neighbor from the night before and two other people I didn’t recognize already there and waiting. Not bad at all.

The morning wait passed slowly, as they always do, as we tried to re-acclimate to the loss of feeling in our extremities and derrieres due to cold air and sidewalk. Just as we were getting settled in (read: found stuff to sit on and were honestly looking really homeless), Madison Square Garden staff approached us and told us to move to a space along the side of the building, away from the sidewalk foot traffic. It just so happens that it was in this spot we’d seen at least two homeless people sleeping not an hour earlier. As if to accentuate this point, the smell of urine was there to greet us as we got back in our line formation and were placed behind waist-high barricades that kept us along the wall. We overheard staff ask via walkie-talkie for a custodian, presumably to clean up whatever spot under our feet smelled like piss – but when said employee arrived, he inexplicably swept and mopped only the front doors of the venue and walked off. After 20 minutes of watching the mop sit there unused, frustration that none of us (set to be there for hours more) could sit down took over me. I asked security – still standing there, seemingly unconcerned about the whole lack-of-cleaning thing – if I could use the mop myself. They responded with an irritating amount of enthusiasm at the prospect, standing by and watching as I tried to bleach the smell away. I can’t make this up: one of them even went so far as to critique my mopping technique as he stood by. But I digress: at least that day, with all of our concerns, we didn’t have to worry about smelling like piss.

The day was slow, but I had good company in a group of women who had come from their home city of Quebec to, with the exception of the show in DC, do exactly as I was doing. Their second-language English prevented us from talking as much as I would have liked, as we indulged in New York’s thankfully ample selection of $1 slices of pizza, but they were still very friendly and inclusive. Best of all, they told me that they all wanted to be on the left side of the stage, meaning I was second in line who wanted the right. If not the corner, at least one spot to the right of it was mine.

I say that with conviction, but I hardly felt so certain. Soon the final hour and a half of the wait – as you’ll recall, the absolute worst period of the line time – was upon us and I was totally unconvinced I’d get my spot after all. All day, courtesy of those who had been in Madison Square Garden pits before, I’d been fed horror stories of slow ticket scanners, innumerable escalator rides before being let in, and general chaos. I knew how easy it was for venue management, always just a little clueless, to mess everything up in a second.

And they kind of made good on that, too. First we were led in (twenty of us) and kept in line at the bottom of a flight of stairs. Then we were herded to a table where our tickets were checked and marked and we were given wristbands. Then we were lined up again, single-file (they yelled at us several times) before they finally let us through….up two escalators and through a hallway, which led finally to the main door. “Don’t run!”, staff screamed at us, as per usual, intimidating us into an awkward half-brisk-walk, half-jog to the barricade. As usual again (weirdly) there weren’t as many people interested in the right side of the stage as the left, so I was one off from the corner. Perfect.

Dave Grohl of the Foo Fighters arrives to "Late Show With David Letterman" at the Ed Sullivan Theater on November 15 in New York. (Jeffrey Ufberg/WireImage)

It all started off with the news that The Joy Formidable’s set would be shortened. This after we’d heard that the Foos had already pushed back the door-opening time to start everything earlier, all presumably to make the midnight NYC noise curfew. The group made the most of it, packing their half hour with music, including what seemed like a lengthened version of their distortion-filled, gong-pounding, guitar-throwing ending to “Whirring”. I have to say, though, that despite what I’m sure must have been disappointment about their set being cut, they seemed to be having even more fun, and showcasing more energy, than they had in DC just days before. So when “Whirring” came along, it was no-holds-barred. Bassist Rhydian Dafydd lurched forward and threw his hands back in exaggerated strokes with every note, yelling lyrics or just simply yelling off-lyric. Singer-guitarist Ritzy Bryan stomped her way across the stage and, while kneeling to adjust the effects pedals to produce as much of a swirling sonic mass as possible, headbanged on all fours, almost doing push-ups with the effort. The drummer who is not Russell Brand (but is Matt Thomas) threw his sticks against the cymbals before him, launching them toward his band mates like arsenal. I have to agree with Dave Grohl on this one: they have the musical chops to back it up, and it all came off as very rock n’ roll.

Speaking of rock n’ roll, next up was Social Distortion. Their set was not shortened, but was switched up a touch – they rotated in a seething older number that really brought up the mood and energy in the pit. As it should have – it would have brought down the house in one of their smaller gigs, where people actually know how to mosh for fun. Anyway, it seemed that despite singer/guitarist Mike Ness’s anecdote that in his previous New York experience he was beat up on H Street, “Social D” as a whole was all the more energized and confident, too. Ness strutted around the stage all the more, planting his feet and straightening himself up as he played as if readying himself for a fight – a fight that, given the signature half-sneer of an expression on his face, he was confident he would win. With his suspenders, old school tattoos, slicked back hair, and almost Elvis-like leg-shaking in time with the music, he was the picture of classic rock n’ roll. Not “classic rock”, of course, but what the genre meant at its origin and was always supposed to mean. Social Distortion represents that with pride, and they do it well.

And then, of course, was the almighty Foo. No matter how many times those extraterrestrial-esque fixtures descended onto the stage, shooting beams of light out into the stadium, I don’t think they could ever fail to give me butterflies. Without a sound, without doing much of anything, they gave the clear impression that something really important was about to happen. And the really cool part about being in the audience, let alone the front row, is that you know it will be. Even for those last few seconds where the band is still hidden, their only sign being the razor-sharp riff that starts everything, – the song “Bridge Burning”, the album, the show, the racing pulses of the audience – you can’t fucking wait. It’s almost a simultaneous thrill and relief when suddenly the stage is clear, lights are flashing, Taylor’s drums are roaring through the speakers, and then: “These are my famous last words!”

What can be said about this show? Every song, even if it was the same as the night before, seemed tinted with the reverence of where we were – a place that management itself boldly proclaims (on all signing and merchandise) is “The World’s Most Famous Arena”. Taylor put this into words at long last during band introductions, quietly expressing his disbelief that the Foos had landed there: “I can’t believe we’re playing Madison Square Garden,” he said. “…all the adolescent dreams we had about playing this kind of show…it still seems unbelievable.”

Of course, no rock band can truly be classified as “reverent” – especially not when playing in front of thousands of screaming fans. During the switch-off solo portion of one of several “jams” built into the songs, this one being “Stacked Actors”, rhythm guitarist Pat Smear betrayed his usually positive disposition by lifting his guitar off his shoulders and smashing it neck-first on the amp in front of him. When a CD launched by a member of the crowd hit lead singer Dave Grohl in the leg during his between-song banter, Dave saw no reason to be anything but blunt. “Here’s an idea”, he said, tension running as a fierce undercurrent, “if you want me to listen to your fucking band, don’t through your CD in my face!”. He punctuated this with a raised middle finger and by picking up the CD and throwing it back in the general direction of the undoubtedly embarrassed audience member. Finally, he issued his usual command to parents, telling them to buy their children actual instruments instead of Guitar Hero, before launching into “Monkey Wrench”.

Nevertheless, things got kind of somber and significant again during the acoustic set – it’s hard not to take a step back and say “wow” when a full Madison Square Garden is singing the chorus of “Wheels” back at you as loud as they can. The soaring “Oooh” bridge on “Best of You” just about overtook Dave’s efforts on his acoustic guitar, as impassioned as they were as he stood, in a halo of light, on the raised platform at the end of the arena. I like to think that this is because everyone else, like me, took it upon themselves to belt it out with all that they had in them, sending all of the emotion that the song demands, with the lyrics, out into the air. But maybe not.

Then, of course, there was the actual encore – with the full band and the feeling that you don’t really know for sure what’s coming next. Bob Mould made another guest appearance, playing on a “Dear Rosemary” that has to be my favorite version to date. Something about the energy of that show, the passion of that song, and the fact that Bob Mould was there singing one of my favorite sections of Foo music of all time – “This was no ordinary life” – had me standing on my tip-toes, fist in the air, and the biggest grin I could possibly have on my face without my jaw giving in. And, as if on cue, Pat met my eye and gave me a huge smile back. Awesome.

That’s another thing about the Foo Fighters: the band’s effort to interact with fans is something that is within itself worthy of admiration. As far as I was concerned, even in DC – when I wasn’t yet making a habit of showing up on the barricade night after night – I got more than I’d hoped for. After indulging in my normal concert shenanigans, headbanging and singing and clapping and jumping (I was really, really excited to see these guys live, okay?), Pat looked at me, pointed, and said “You rock!”, topping it all off by bending down to give me his pick. You know you’re at a good show when a band can make you feel like you’re the only person in the room, not just one of tens of thousands. I don’t take that for granted for a second.

This gig wasn’t anywhere near over, though. It was Madison Square Garden, after all, and everyone knows that you don’t play MSG without something up your sleeve (which, when I was living in Ohio, was actually a source of more than a little resentment, but that’s beside the point). The front-row rumor mill had pretty much spoiled this for me; that didn’t make it any less exciting when – as Dave started his introduction of “the most badass motherfucker” ever who, if we wanted to learn about rock ‘n roll, would be “the best teacher” – a roadie with a “Blackheart Records” sweatshirt came on stage to set up. It was official: to quote Dave, it was “JOAN JETT!!!”.

With that, a rock and feminist icon, bestselling artist, and all-around badass casually walked out, hugging the 3 Foo boys on my side of the stage before strapping on her guitar and stepping up to the microphone. Her brief introduction went a little something like this:

Dave: “How do we start?”

Joan: “One, two, three, four?”

Dave: (pointing at drummer Taylor Hawkins) “That’s what he says!”.

Taylor took this as his cue and counted off, launching them into the song. Despite Dave’s earlier quips, which one would assume were hints that they would be playing “I Love Rock n’ Roll”, they charged into a searing version of “Bad Reputation”, Joan on lead vocals and Dave taking the “No no no” backups. Make no mistake, this version was badass rock n’ roll at its finest. It’s been a while since I rocked out so hard and shamelessly on a barricade – but then, the occasion seemed to more than call for it. I don’t regret it one bit. I mean, how could I?

And then, of course, it was “Everlong,” the emotional punch that ends every show. The emotionality and sheer quality of the performance, every time, hardly softens the blow, amazing enough to make you wish more than anything that you didn’t have to go home. Thankfully, I didn’t really have to worry about that: as I dutifully held up my “See You in Jersey!” sign, (which to my surprise got a smile and a “Fuck yes!” from Pat Smear) I tried not to think about the fact that that trip to Jersey was going to happen a lot sooner than my exhausted body would have liked…

The view from very, very close (Morgan Lawrence for Blast Magazine)

Blast intern Morgan Lawrence is following the Foo Fighters from Washington, to New York, to Newark and back home to Boston. This is part one of her four-part series.

WASHINGTON — My journey started with a 6 a.m. flight, which meant I got to the airport sometime around 5 in the morning, rubbing sleep from my eyes. I suppose it’s some kind of karmic balance that when I checked in I had a surprise upgrade waiting for me, meaning I got to skip the somehow tremendously long security line at Boston Logan.

One of my favorite parts of travel is getting surprise upgrades. Not because of the material perks, but because it places me with the middle-aged business men oozing drier starch, aftershave and inflated self-importance. I sit among them, band t-shirt and pink-hair and iPod on, drinking my complimentary coffee and orange juice and stowing the portion-sized Sun Chips in my bag for later. I stick out like a sore thumb – a comically pampered sore thumb.

Gratefully, my paranoia about getting lost between the Metro and the venue was unfounded: the Metro stop literally let out two escalator rides below the venue. I walked out onto the street and spotted a “box office” sign immediately, scanning the sidewalk for the crowd that I was sure would be waiting- it was almost 9 a.m., after all. I kept scanning – no one. Within a moment I met two girls who looked about my age, eying me with the same kind of hope mixed with suspicion that, I’m sure, was in my own gaze as well. As we all three walked slowly toward the arena door and met in the middle, I noticed that one of them had a Foo Fighters shirt on; clearly we’re there for the same reason. And, by the looks of it, we were first.

The line time passed more quickly and pleasantly than any line I’ve been in in recent memory. Every person I met was friendly and talkative, and, most importantly, clearly as dedicated to seeing this band as I was. Only two of the first 20 or so people in line were actually from Washington, DC itself, the rest having come from as far as states away. More interesting still was that while this was my first show on the tour, I was in the minority: most saw this show as the end of their own mini-tours, or had at least been to other shows not long ago in the area. As the evening wore on, they helped us fend off people who “mistook” the front of the line for the back (read: trying to take our hard-earned spots). They were even nice enough to let me put my bag in their hotel room for the day when we found out that, despite the fact that surely I wasn’t the only one relying on a backpack to carry all of my necessary possessions, bags were not permitted into the venue.

I will say this, though — regardless of how mild the line, or how organized the lining up process (which, let’s be honest, is never really organized at all; that is purely a relative and optimistic term), the last hour to ninety minutes are the worst. Or, actually, that is not worthy of a relative term – they’re just bad, really. Anxiety heightens, as does paranoia – the free time you had before, accompanied with the appropriate I-have-all-the-time-in-the-world mentality, suddenly evaporates, and even a walk to a trashcan halfway down the block becomes dangerous because what if something happens while you’re gone? It’s totally illogical. It is essentially considered a feat if anything in the music world starts on time. Early is practically unthinkable. But the worry is there just the same.

I suppose this goes to the optimism of the concert-goer: the thought that someone with connections will realize that you’re cold and tired and near-hypothermic, soaked to the bone in a nun costume made of very thin material (uhm…never mind) and that you just want to be closer to seeing your favorite band. And, knowing that, they will wave their magic wand and let you inside.

Yeah. That never happens.

I think the truth is probably closer to one of my favorite quotes, by Mr. Oscar Wilde: The basis of optimism is sheer terror. After x amount of hours in line (where x > anything socially acceptable, often, and generally ? the length of a normal day’s work shift), a spot in line becomes less something you luck into and more something earned. As someone for whom x is always an amount that, in the end, causes passersby to confuse me with a homeless person taking refuge outside a venue, I understand this feeling all too well. Losing a spot in line through someone else’s greed or rudeness is a massive breach of etiquette on their part, and is not taken lightly, but it can sometimes be repaired with enough force. But losing it to your own folly and bad timing is unforgivable, and irreparable to boot. No one wants to risk that, even with something that isn’t a risk at all. In this case, I saw a man run to a bathroom around the corner from the line an hour before doors were set to open, come back to see that nothing at all had happened, and still take it upon himself to jog to a trash can maybe 10 yards down the street. It was as if he was convinced we would sprint through the doors as soon as he was gone, all (at least) 100 of us, leaving him behind as he threw away his paper coffee cup – sucker!

As I said before, though, very little goes earlier than according to plan in the music world, except maybe a really shitty set from an opening band that they decide to pull early. This was no exception, although I do give credit to the staff for, at least, opening the doors damn near close to right on time. It’s November, after all, which means that as the sun went down all extremities began to lose feeling and an unbreakable impatience began to settle over us all like a frost.

This is why, when doors opened, we all shot into the venue like horses out of the gate. Many of us tried to be compliant with security to speed things up but, nervous, fumbled, and only served to make things more difficult.

This is why we ran down he stairs to the wristband table an tapped our feet nervously as our tickets were checked, willing the employees to go as quickly as possible so that someone with a faster ticket scanner could somehow come up from behind and put our hours of waiting to nothing.

This is why we felt kind of stupid when they stopped us in a smaller anteroom before letting us in, as we watched in semi-terror as a larger and larger line formed behind us and up the stairs. We begged the employee guarding said door to let us in gradually, lest a stampede break out and we frontrunners be trampled, so close yet so far.

This is why we ran again when that door was opened, switching to an extremely “brisk walk” under the direction of security but then running again when the free barricade spaces were in view, just the same.

I consider my right side corner barricade spot to be one of the best vantage points in the house, if not the best. It’s positioned so that you are as close as possible while still having head-turned access to the miniature catwalk that is an outcrop of the main stage itself (which Dave Grohl tends to frequent during a number of songs). The same can be said of the corner on the left side, of course, but I’ve been partial to the right (where center isn’t possible) since my Green Day days began. Right side always meant being closer to the bassist, Mike Dirnt – who, in addition to being extremely talented, is unquestionably in the running for World’s Nicest and Most Charming Man. In the Foos’ case, this means access to one Pat Smear, who, as I knew from personal experience at Lollapalooza in August, is also in competition for that award. Or maybe they both should just win it?

First up on the band roster was The Joy Formidable, a group of guitarist/singer, bassist, and a drummer who looks scarily like Russell Brand. Guitarist Ritzy Bryant, wonderfully enthusiastic in the powerful kind of way usually dominated by testosterone-overloaded male performers, took it upon herself to catch people off-guard by making wide-eyed eye contact mid-lyric. Thankfully, I am not so easily phased – I’m of the opinion that such artist-crowd interaction is essential, and I was more than happy to nod my head and clap and grin right back. I love live music in just about all of its forms, and hell if wanting to see the Foos desperately was going to keep me from enjoying myself in the moment. I mean, come on, I’d spent the last 8 hours on a sidewalk. Live music to me sounded like the best “time kill” ever.

And, really, The Joy Formidable are good. They are. And, while I was already partial to their last song, “Whirring”(I know, I know, being partial to their only single is beyond pathetic. But what can you do?) , the end of it all left me turning to the guy behind me and exclaiming “Now that is how you send a set!” Already a track that blends instruments and pedal effects together in a fierce melody, backdrop to the Bryan’s sharp, otherwise bright vocals, this live performance took that technique and ran with it far and fast. The muted roar became a full-on cacophony. Bryan held her guitar up to the face of the amp, resulting in a healthy amount of feedback, while shredding mercilessly on the neck before giving up completely and throwing it (explaining the healthy amount of duct tape that could be seen on the instrument’s front and sides). From there she seized a mallet and smashed away at a rather large gong, the presence on stage of which was finally explained. When the storm finally passed, she and her bandmates simply walked offstage. The flowery “thank-you-we’re-so-glad-to-be-here”s had already been said, leaving them to depart with expressions fixed on their faces as harsh and unforgiving as their song had proven to be. If nothing else, their set felt overwhelmingly genuine – the spectacle didn’t feel like pandering, but more their answer to the unspoken question of “How the hell do we handle arenas this big?!”.

Next up was Social Distorion, who hold an indelible place in rock history and are cited as an influence of innumerable bands as a result. Based on those facts alone, as a hardcore music geek, I would have been excited to see them. As it stands, though, they hold an important place in the formation of my own music taste, as several of their songs were in healthy rotation on my town’s only Alternative (read: good) station during my formative years of musical exploration … which is why I was so disappointed in the way the audio dropped out during the set. On the right side, we were hit full force with the sounds of rhythm guitar, bass, drums, and some lead guitar during solos, but unless you were literally watching singer/guitarist Mike Ness’ mouth move, you would have no idea he was singing at all. No amount of panache – which Mike Ness has plenty of, by the way – can make up for that kind of oversight, which really was a shame.

Above all, ending the set with ‘Ring of Fire” was a wonderful choice, as nothing gets one’s spirits up like a good crowd sing-along. And this crowd was happy to oblige. This, and the knowledge that this set change was the only thing standing between us and the Foo Fighters, led to an unquestionable lightening of the mood between us all. Even the security/bouncers’ slightly-surly commentary of “Two down, one to go” couldn’t bring us down.

And rightfully so. I don’t know what it was about the huge cube-like light fixtures that descended over the stage right before the band walked on, but it left me with a mounting sense of excitement and anticipation of something big that had me saying, simply, “Oh shit!”. And then all too suddenly we were in the thick of it, with Dave screaming my favorite line: “These are my famous last words!”

I’ve always said “What a way to open an album!” about that line, and about that track (“Bridge Burning”, off “Wasting Light”) in general. Now I can safely say “What a way to open a show!” Dave Grohl seemed to think so, too. Going back to my previous music-nomad experience, Billie Joe Armstrong, when excited, will goad the crowd into Simon-says session of “hey oh!”. Apparently, when Dave Grohl is excited, he does the same – but without the whole “using words” thing. Instead he lets out a signature roar that demands we follow suit, filling the stadium with the kind of raw power and energy that I so love about their music, even on the record. And then….

How does one even begin to describe this show? I’ve heard every song they performed innumerable times, but each one was packed with so much life and power that it was impossible not to freak out like they’d just busted out a rarity from ’95.

More importantly, though, watching the Foo Fighters play live, even the hits they’ve played for every show since the tracks were written, one thing becomes clear: these men love playing their instruments, and they are really fucking good at it. As a drummer, and as a fan of drummers, I’m constantly rooting for the drummer to get the spotlight, to really fucking steal the show. And while Dave Grohl clearly loved to dart around the stage like a kid who’s had one too many Pixie Stix, shredding off a new mini-solo or blues digression or even some interlude that sounds oddly like free-form jazz, he couldn’t overshadow Mr. Taylor Hawkins. And he very clearly had no desire too, either. For every time you thought Dave, as the lead, was taking over a song, Taylor would fire back with something truly mind-boggling on the drums that left even Dave standing by admiringly, grinning like a fool. They would segue off after or even during one off their hits and do something completely different, showing off and just enjoying playing with each other, the 19,000 other people in the room be damned.

Their onstage rapport also deserves a mention. Usually, obviously, it’s Dave, who rotates between the effortless charm of a cool guy who just happens to be a kick-your-ass rock musician and the comportment of a teenager after chugging a few Rock Star energy drinks. Case and point: band introductions. “Don’t ever move to DC, Pat – too many people here love you,” he cautioned, after a particularly loud and prolonged round of applause went up for Mr. Smear. He called Taylor “The man who needs no introduction”, but looked mock-offended when he was cut off by the roar of the crowd. Taylor waved in various directions in response, smiling like a 12-year-old kid who just did particularly well in a piano recital but doesn’t quite know why. He proceeded to introduce Dave as “the man who really needs no introduction”, to which Dave cheekily responded “Then why are you giving me one?”

Dave and Chris Shiflett, lead guitarist, at one point got in a full-on shred-off. Dave stood below us all on a constructed runway and Chris still onstage, walking – no, strolling – to and fro, mock- put off by Dave’s show and firing a mini-solo right back at him at every turn. As much as we were celebrating the music that these men had put out and its effect on all of us, it was clear that we were just as much celebrating these men as musicians – and, even, music itself. This became all too clear when Dave stepped up to the microphone and told the kids in the audience, the next generation of musicians, that if they wanted to start a band to close their computers and go buy a guitar instead. Music, real music, was what this was all about.

It made sense, then, that Dave sauntered back out to the raised platform and played “Wheels” – a song he jokingly referred to as being only popular in Germany. In almost the same breath, though, he demanded that we all yell the chorus with him, bribing us with a promised “4-hour show” at DC’s small venue, the 9:30 Club (apparently a theme of Dave’s on this tour).

He further used his vantage point, speaking to thousands of residents of his hometown, as an opportunity to bemoan the desecration of his “beloved Springfield Mall” (comparing its current state to something out of the apocalyptic film “28 Days Later”) but reasoned that he was glad things had changed since he’d lived there – he had changed, too. He noted wryly, though, that he expected every review of the show to immediately bring up the past, to which he gave an emphatic “Fuck 20 years ago!”.

This portion of the show was a totally unique and very cool concert experience, for a number of reasons. For one, as I said before, I’m a sucker for a good group singalong, especially when the “group” is 18,999 of your closest friends. But, second, the majority of the house lights were on, and this meant that nearly every damn person in the stands was visible. And, because Dave was the center of attention (the rest of the band was off on a beer break), the entire pit was now turned to face the back of the arena. From where I stood, 10 feet from the stage, a huge portion of the stands were visible. It was a fishbowl effect, in a way, or a concert setup in reverse. It was what it must feel like (in a limited way, of course) to stand on that stage and see so very many faces singing back at you. It was awesome.

I could easily bitch about Dave’s penchant for choosing 1 of 4, at least, different locations to stand and sing, in only 1 of which I could actually see his face – but I really can’t. First, it’s like he said, addressing the people in the nosebleeds at the very back of the arena – the “shitty seats” – “They’re not so shitty now, are they?”. I really respect the fact that he spreads his presence around as much as he can, even if those people didn’t wait nearly as long as I did to see him up close .Second, I really do think that this, if unintentionally, reinforced why we were there. We weren’t there to gawk at Dave’s handsome face for 2.5 hours, as wonderful (and warranted) as that would be. No, we were there to enjoy the music and to be a community. And I think this – all of us belting out the chorus to “Best of You” and “Times Like These”, just before the rest of the band triumphantly reemerged to bring it home – accomplished that in a way that nothing else could.

Of course, this wasn’t the real encore – not yet. As I said, the rest of the band rejoined the leading man, taking the main stage. Soon after, Dave brought out who else but DC native Bob Mould to join for “Dear Rosemary”, a truly gorgeous version of the track on the record to which he contributed. We also got Story Time with Dave, where he told us about his first broken heart at age 12. To that unfortunate girl who so wounded him he dedicated the next song, Tom Petty’s “Breakdown”, which was actually fantastic – and this is coming from someone who is more than critical of covers, especially those by artists I respect (Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, obviously, falling into that category, because I have ears, damn it!).

They wrapped it all up with “Everlong”, which was simply too wonderful for words. The lines “And I wonder/If anything could ever feel this real forever/if anything could ever be this good again” seemed to hit full force as I stood there, feeling nothing but purely, totally happy.

I made sure to get my tour t-shirt as I left, feeling pretty much like nothing could stop me (save the absolute impossibility of getting a cab after a concert in Washington, DC on a Saturday night…but that’s another story). 1 down, 3 to go.

NEW YORK — Due to circumstances beyond their control, HE IS WE has canceled the remainder of their dates supporting All Time Low.

The band will be pulling off the tour effective immediately in order for vocalist Rachel Taylor to be treated for medical reasons.

“First and foremost, our main concern is for Rachel to get the treatment that she needs to get back in 100p percent health so she can get back on the road and play for fans again,” said manager Jeff Levin.

Last night’s performance in Iowa City was the band’s last show on the All Time Low tour.

Taylor’s health problems were not disclosed.

wireimage.com

Twilight fans may get to meet select cast members and hear music featured in The Twilight Saga: Breaking Dawn at special events across the country beginning on November 7.

Stars including Peter Facinelli, Elizabeth Reaser, Kellan Lutz, Nikki Reed, Jackson Rathbone and Ashley Greene will attend the screenings and will watch alongside the moviegoers as artists such as Christina Perri, Aqualung, Lucy Schwartz and Sleeping at Last perform songs from the movie’s sound track.

Tickets are free and go on sale at 10 am on Saturday, November 5, at each of the screening locations.

Part one of Breaking Dawn premieres on November 18.

Cathch a sneak peek of the wedding scene here!

The Schedule is as follows:

November 7, 2011: Atlanta, GA

The Buckhead Theatre

3110 Roswell Road Atlanta GA 30305

Cast Attending: Ashley Greene, Nikki Reed, Peter Facinelli and Jackson Rathbone

Performance By: Christina Perri

*For Atlanta event details please contact breakingdawnatl@gmail.com

November 8, 2011: Chicago, IL

House of Blues

329 N Dearborn Chicago IL 60654

Cast Attending: Ashley Greene, Nikki Reed, Peter Facinelli, Jackson Rathbone, Kellan Lutz and Elizabeth Reaser

Performance By: Christina Perri

*For Chicago event details please contact BreakingDawnChicago@gmail.com

November 9, 2011: Dallas, TX

The Palladium Ballroom at Gilley’s Dallas

1135 South Lamar Street

Dallas, TX 75215-1036

Cast Attending: Ashley Greene, Nikki Reed, Peter Facinelli and Jackson Rathbone

Performance By: Christina Perri

*For Dallas event details please contact BreakingDawn.Dallas@LandH.com

November 10, 2011:  San Francisco, CA

The Fillmore

1805 Geary Boulevard, San Francisco, CA 94115

Cast Attending: Ashley Greene, Nikki Reed, Peter Facinelli and Jackson Rathbone

Performances By: Aqualung, Lucy Schwartz and Sleeping atLast

*For San Francisco event details please contact BreakingDawnSanFrancisco@gmail.com

November 11, 2011:  Salt Lake City, UT

The Rail Event Center

235 N 500 W. Salt Lake City, UT 84116

Cast Attending: Ashley Greene, Nikki Reed, Peter Facinelli and Jackson Rathbone

Performances By: Aqualung, Lucy Schwartz and Sleeping atLast  *For Salt Lake City event details please contact breakingdawnslc@gmail.com

LOS ANGELES — The Night of Sweet Relief concert is set for October 15.

Thousands are expected to gather nationwide in arenas, theaters, clubs, and local bars to celebrate live music and support musicians.

Night of Sweet Relief is an annual multi-venue event produced by musicians, venues, promoters, ticket companies and media partners to engage music fans to go where the music world really happens today — live and on stage.

“This is a night to get off the couch, away from the TV, movie, or video game and into the excitement of live entertainment,” said Rob Max, Executive Director of Sweet Relief Musicians Fund. “Listening to music is great, but seeing the artists perform live, playing right in front of you on stage is an experience you never forget.”

Participating venues will include The Roxy, the Viper Room, El Rey, Amoeba Records, Tipitina’s, Slims, Exit/In, Swizzlesteve Inc, the Fonda, Satellite, the Glass House and many more.

Proceeds will go to Sweet Relief Musicians Fund to assist musicians facing illness, disability, or age-related problems.

Looking for something to do this weekend? Want that “something” to be free? Then you’re in luck! As part of their 125th Anniversary Celebration, Keith Lockhart and the Boston Pops are giving a free concert on the Boston Common at 3 p.m. on Sunday.

The concert will feature a new work composed by Peter Boyer with Tony Award-winning lyricist Lynn Ahrens entitled “The Dream Lives On: A Portrait of the Kennedy Brothers,” during which the audience will enjoy quotes from speeches by the Kennedy brothers combined with original text and video and orchestral and choral scores.

The concert will also include a ’70s sing-along, music from “Star Wars” and “Harry Potter,” a new arrangement of “God Bless America,” and more!

FOXBOROUGH — We may be near Boston, but there was still only one place on Sunday to pass twelve taps of Guinness followed by a “Free Burma” booth. Get out your Irish flags, your sunglasses and a charitable heart, because U2 wants to get closer to you than they ever have before.

U2′s 360 Tour, their first tour since Vertigo in 2006, is named for the round set design that allows fans to encircle the stage. The tour supports U2′s latest album, “No Line on the Horizon,” which was released worldwide in March. The gig brought the band back to Massachusetts on Sunday to kick-off two nights of shows at Gillette Stadium.

Snow Patrol was the opening act for Sunday’s show. The opener’s highlight was an impromptu sing along. When vocalist Gary Lightbody called it “humiliating” when a previous crowd declined to sing with him, Gillette Stadium was instantly filled with the a capella voices of thousands. “Shut your eyes and sing to me,” the crowd sang”"a line from the band’s “Eyes Open” album. As Irish flags waved in the upper tiers, the support for the Irish and Scottish band members was palpable. The band’s 30-minute set also included their radio hits “Chasing Cars” and “Hands Open.”

When thanking U2 on stage, Lightbody told the audience to get prepared. “It’s the best gig I’ve ever been to,” he said, “and I’ve been to it seventeen times. It’s gonna blow your freakin’ minds.”

The futuristic stage was mind-blowing on its own, towering over the field with a 360-degree screen and a smoking center structure that resembled a rocket. Bono called the set a cross between a “space station” and a “rock-and-roll laboratory” during Sunday’s show. “Great to be back home in Boston,” he said to the crowd of over 60,000 fans. “Are you ready for the ride?”

The set list covered most of U2′s hits, with an intensity that mounted like a countdown to blastoff. The 360-degree screen gave the illusion of spinning faster and faster as the band performed “Vertigo.” By “Elevation,” the crowd on the field was worked into a frenzy as band members crossed moving bridges on the set to get closer to the audience. Guitarist The Edge, bassist Adam Clayton, and percussionist Larry Mullen, Jr. all had solo moments on the bridges near the fans.

The show was made better by the sound quality, which was clear from the top levels to the field. The additional lighting helped transport the audience to another planet, coaxed there by a non-stop intensity from the band and the energized (and notably Irish) crowd.

The only indication that Gillette Stadium was still on the ground came in the last quarter of the show, which was dedicated to the band’s political activism. An Irish lullaby was dedicated to pro-democracy leader Aung San Suu Kyi of Burma, who has been under house arrest since she won the Burmese election in 1990. Bono asked the crowd to hold up her picture or put on masks of her face, which were handed out before the show. “Let her face be your face,” Bono told the crowd. “Tonight we walk on for her.”

As part of the political message, certain sections of the floor were designated for those with (RED) Zone tickets, which were auctioned off to the highest bidders. Part of the proceeds will benefit Product (RED), an initiative that raises money to fight AIDS, tuberculosis and malaria. The crowd grew solemn after this section of the set, leaving the call for an encore quiet and anticlimactic.

Despite the added weight of the message, most the audience stayed throughout the encore. Cell phones were lifted throughout the stadium and the lights were dimmed, creating the illusion of being in space, surrounded by thousands of illuminated stars. Bono finished the show by thanking the audience. “Thank you for giving us a great life,” he said.

The show offered up a sample of what the future might offer us, both musically and politically, and the crowd was mesmerized for the whole ride. If the future needs a big kiss, it tastes pretty damn good.

Photography and video by Allison Hughes for Blast

She’s still got it. Performing some of her most beloved and well-known hit songs along with new upbeat tunes from her latest effort “Hard Candy” Madonna gave 100 percent to a full house at the TD Banknorth Garden October 15 in Boston. The provocatively named “Sticky and Sweet” tour featured elaborate stage structures, impressive lighting and enticing dancing, as per Madonna’s usual offerings during performances.

In her first stage appearance since announcing her divorce to husband Guy Ritchie, Madonna kept it light making only one fleeting reference to “emotionally retarded” people before singing “Miles Away” off of her 11th and latest album. She addressed the audience asking “Maybe you know some of those people. I know I do.”

She is the ultimate survivor and evolutionary pop icon, as proven by her complete commitment to putting on an energetic performance for her sold-out show. After such emotional and personally turmoil she still put on one hell of a show boasting colorful costumes, some of the best dancers in the business and digitally-recorded video duets with Kanye West, Timbaland and Justin Timberlake along with Miss Controversy herself, Britney Spears.

Her “duet” with Spears to “Human Nature” was a fresh take on a song that caused a stir during the 90s when the S & M themed-video first appeared. “La Isla Bonita” and “Get Into the Groove” were crowd-pleasers, for those who actually remembered her earlier songs and didn’t mouth incorrect lyrics. As for “Borderline” her very first single, the audience loved it.

Choice tracks from the new album that translated well to dance-filled stage numbers include “Heartbeat” and “Give it to Me.” A hands down personal favorite had to be “She’s Not Me,” an ode to Madonna’s undying fame and an overall pick-me-up for any woman. Because anyone can relate to the feeling of a significant other being “stolen” by another, and the imminent instinct that no one will ever provide the same things as you can in a relationship.

Oh well.

As for agenda-pushing, the Material Girl made it abundantly clear that she wanted everyone to vote … for Obama. Her political commentary and video imagery were liberally filled with material for the Left. And while audible sounds of “Just get back to the music” could be heard uttered by disgruntled republicans, the majority of the audience was in a united uproar to unite for her, and Obama’s campaign. Madonna relayed to the audience that she was told to “not mention Sarah Palin, speaking of ridiculous things,” and that was all she said on the matter.

50-year-old Madonna bumped and grinded all over that stage, even showcasing a soft-core number on the floor as she had her feet tied with rope as she gyrated and pulsated on all fours. If anything can be said for her, it is that her dancing is still flawless and effortless and her body is in amazing condition. More muscular than Michael Phelps, Madonna seemed to feed off of the energy of knowing that she represents decades of reinvention and that she herself will never be replaced in the public eye, no matter what Ms. Spears does.

The overall favorites had to have been “Hung Up” from the Confessions on a Dance Floor album along with “Like a Prayer.” The latter was performed to a background of Hebrew, Arabic and other foreign language texts and religious quotes from texts ranging like the Torah, the Bible, the Koran and Buddhist teachings. What would a Madonna concert be without a lesson in theology?

I’ll just have to say it again, she’s still got it. She never faltered and she never showed less than complete enthusiasm and dedication to her career and her fans. And despite her personal issues and sticky situation, she remembered the one thing that has kept her career afloat.

The show must go on.

Six hot, local, independent bands will be on stage at The Somerville Theater March 29 from 6 p.m. till midnight in a show called “No Contrats Needed.”

In an homage to eager, unsigned bands, the six-hour show will feature 3rd Left, — releasing their third album at the show — The Ride, On the Drop, Dave Crespo & After Party, Ubiquitous, and Someday Rome.

$15 ($13 in advance), The Somerville Theater, 55 Davis Square, Somerville, Mass., 617-625-5700

The Bands:

3rd Left: It is said that 3rd Left may be releasing their 3rd CD at No Contracts Needed on March 29th. This album will be the first disc from the band featuring their new trumpet player, Johnny Souza. The four-piece band has been playing their style of jammed out rock music in Boston for four years now. 3rd Left’s first shows in Boston were booked by Dave Crespo back in 2004 at small bars within the Bullfinch Triangle.

The Ride: Formed in New Hampshire, The Ride is not only used to the drive from Boston and back, but also all over the rest of New England. The Ride is the kind of band that plays everywhere all the time. Their version of spaced out rock music has acquired a solid following and is being compared to The Disco Biscuits.

On the Drop: On the Drop is hitting their stride with No Contracts Needed. A month ago they were named the "Newbury Comics Local Band of the Week," and eleven days after this gig on March 29th, they will be playing in the WBCN Rock N’ Roll Rumble. With their aggressive reggae rock, On the Drop is looking to the spring to take their music to a new level in Boston’s music scene.

Dave Crespo & the After Party: The co-promoter of No Cotnracts Needed, Dave Crespo will be taking the Somerville Theatre’s stage third. Crespo started out in Boston as a solo acoustic act, however has within a years time turned his act into a full band experience with the After Party. The band has a pop rock sound that is lead by Crespo’s song writing and the powerful female vocals of Cary Wells.

Ubiquitous: Hailing from Lexington, Massachusetts, this young band found their way on this bill by winning the Opsercian Rompetition held at The Middle East Upstairs on February 2nd, 2008. Ubiquitous sounds like a mix between Incubus and early Radiohead.

Someday Rome: Someday Rome is used to playing in Davis Square at The Burren. This jump to a bigger stage across the street is welcomed with a smile by the band. Their pop rock sound is along the lines of Jack Johnson with more energy.