On paper, Sprints seems like the ideal band for Boston. This Dublin-based band brings ferocious yet infectious energy along with stridently progressive politics and the over-arching desire to have an inclusively good time. And all of those boxes were checked on the gig goer’s bingo cards tonight, resulting in a show that was celebratory from both sides of the stage edge.
This marked their second time in town, with fiery leader Karla Chubb declaring that the first crowd was shit compared to tonight. “Last time you fucking sucked, but tonight this is one of the best crowds of the tour so far.” She claimed they’d been eating lobster rolls and drinking High Life all day but lethargy was not in the cards; they brought their A game and never let up on the throttle.
Unsurprisingly, the new record released last September was heavily showcased, and kicking it off with “Something’s Going To Happen” was more than a premonition. The fuse was lit, the band was ready and the fireworks began.
“Rage,” “Descartes,” “To The Bone,” “Feast,” “Heavy” – sharp, focused blasts delivered with frightening accuracy; this might be a wild projection but I get the feeling Chubb is well-acquainted with Kim Gordon’s work.
During “Need,” Chubb ambled down to the club floor and got up close with the fans, gradually getting them to circle around and sit down on the floor like a lion trainer, until the band cranked the volume and the energy was released. She also made her way over to the side bar to grab drinks for the band, only to discover it was closed. A staffer quickly filled their drink orders (cultural difference noted when a crowd member yelled “Tip your bartender!” and bass player Sam McCann quickly retorted “We pay our bartenders”). Chubb had three drinks ferried over to the stage while she kept hers in her hand, crowdsurfing the way back without spillage; she handed it to a punter before being delivered back to stage, and she retrieved it like a pro.
Another funny moment happened during a song break when my friend Barry’s phone rang. Karla heard it, asked for the phone and answered it, putting the phone on speaker and holding it to the microphone. It was his son Max “Can I speak with my dad?” to which Karla responded “He’s having a beer at a rock show, why aren’t you here?”
The show ended with “Little Fix,” with a crowd-sourced guitar player taking Karla’s instrument as she did another trip around the room atop the hands of strangers. If anyone left that show without a huge smile on their face, I’m not sure what else the band could deliver.
My Transparent Eye can count themselves among the myriad of young bands surfing the fuzzed out waves of the shoegaze revival, their stark silhouettes rendered with the mood slider set to MAXIMUM against dim red light backlighting. Unfortunately, they seemed to have only really been familiar with My Bloody Valentine, right down Colm O’ciosoig’s distinctive drumming style.
