Down
in the night-life trenches where the real bands slug it out, exposure is the
filthy lucre doled out by club owners in lieu of cash — or respect. If you’ve
ever ventured into a nightclub clutching an instrument, with a song in your
heart, stars in your eyes, and nothing in your pockets, then you’ve heard it
before. It’s the old song and dance: “C’mon, it’ll be good exposure.” Just ask
the Eskimos about exposure.
Then
again you could check with Eddie Nebula and The Plague, who, despite its talent
and sneaking self-doubt, has a fear of overexposure.
“We
have a really loyal fan base for some reason,” says guitarist Karl Hungus. “We
love our crowd but we don’t want to go more than once every three months.”
“It’s
an event every time we play,” says frontman Eddie Nebula. “But what kills us is
we really seriously talk every time we’re about to have a show, ‘I don’t know
if anyone’s going to show up this time.’ We only play like five times a year. I
think that nobody’s going to show up if we play more than that.”
Then
the self-doubt really kicks in — only to be squashed by the band’s obvious
popularity.
“Maybe
now we’re underexposing,” Nebula wonders. “But then everyone shows up. It’s
like ‘Holy crap, somebody gives a shit.'”
Catch
the band and it’s like watching a 3-D TV with the vertical hold gone haywire.
Nebula’s feet rarely touch the ground between his aerial splits, Bruce Lee
scissor kicks, and NBA hang time.
“I’m
afraid I’m going to slip and fall if I put my feet down,” Nebula says, even
though he’s more likely to crack his head on the ceiling.
Eddie
Nebula and The Plague is a powerful four-piece band from Rochester. There’s
rock energy, metal riffs, punk insanity, and plenty of stinging sarcastic wit,
both lyrically and in the way the whole fiasco is dished out. If you’ve ever
wondered why “poor me” replaced “fuck you” in rock ‘n’ roll, you might want to
dig The Plague.
“That
sums it up right there,” Nebula says. “That’s exactly where I’m at. When are we
gonna get back to bitchin’ and having strength and having something to laugh
about?”
Hungus
openly taunts bands that don’t adhere to that mantra.
“Emo,”
he says, looking like he just sucked a lemon, “yeah, have some self esteem.
You’re on stage, fuckin’ like yourself a little bit.”
The
Plague packs ’em in. And it’s not just the free, personalized, mini bottles of
bourbon they hand out either.
“I
think it’s the songs,” Hungus says. “Ed’s a great songwriter. When you come to
our shows, the first few rows of people know all the words to the songs we
wrote. And that’s awesome.”
This
leaves Nebula somewhat pleased. Someone bought the record.
“Basically
it means that somebody actually listened to it,” he says. “And I don’t have to
print the lyrics every time.” But again the doubt: “Or maybe I should.”
Still,
he’s somewhat mystified with the attention. Who are these people?
“It’s
more of a cultish following,” he says. “I know half of the people that go to
the shows. The other people, I don’t recognize some of them, and I don’t see
them at other shows. So I don’t know where the hell they’re coming from.”
Maybe
it’s the band’s vibe that draws them.
“Ed
has a ton of charisma,” says Hungus. “And we just give off a fun vibe as well.
We don’t take ourselves seriously.”
“But
the joke is… The Plague was supposed to be Rochester,” Nebula says. “The word
plague meant where I am, where I’m at in Rochester. I always thought of it as
like Mordor or Gotham City. I’m stuck in it. It’s a love-hate thing.”
Nebula’s
love is for what he dubs “the Rochester sound.”
“Although
all the bands in Rochester don’t sound the same, there’s a little bit of an
area sound,” he says. “I think we all have this sort of ongoing feel. I think
it’s a little sarcastic, lyrically. I think there’s a dark tone to a lot of the
bands, even the more upbeat bands, even the Hi-Risers. I’m set up to write
silly heavy music and there’s still a darkness to it. It just comes out that
way because, I think, of where we are. The weather’s kind of crappy.”
Nebula’s
darkness doesn’t seem as barometrically centered on the third and new CD, Sub Bourbon Nights. He’s still pissed,
but his lyrical gripes fit well with a band that’s obviously maturing.
On
the new disc, the band capably corrals classic metal tones, punk speed, and
melodic hooks. Even when the band blasts through a number like “Sons Of
Bitches,” Nebula’s vocal timing and timbre are penetrating. The cut “Rochester
Girls” starts out with a lonesome Southwest ghost rider tinge, only to careen
into a rock chorus on how much local girls suck.
“We
tried to mix it up and put in some different tempos and different feels,”
Hungus says. “I think we’re just going forward ’cause you gotta evolve. And it
was a logical progression ’cause we were listening to more and more weird stuff
and less and less punk rock.”
“To
me there is a value in trying to write quality songs even if they’re ridiculous
tunes like some of the stuff we do,” Nebula says. “But also people who show up
to your show, they don’t care how successful you are outside of what you’re
doing that night. They know it’s Saturday night, it’s you, and it’s them.”
This article appears in Jan 5-11, 2005.
