By Gili Malinsky
By Bob Ruggiero
By Hilary Hughes
By Peter Gerstenzang
By David R. Adler
By Devon Maloney
By Brian McManus
By Jessica Hopper
Zoologists and rock critics alike have lately observed the sudden glut of panda bands: Panda, the Pandas, the Panda Band, Panda Bear, Panda Watch, Bye Bye Panda, We're an American Panda, Pandas Are Progress, Hot Panda, Bloody Panda, Death Panda, Giant Panda Guerilla Dub Squad, etc. I only made up one of those.
This sort of animal fixation crops up occasionallywho among us doesn't fondly recall the Great Wolf Surplus of 2005? (Nadir: AIDS Wolf.) But the panda boom is particularly apt. Like actual pandas, the generation of young, fashionable Lower East Side denizens that comprise your typical panda band's target audience are cute, fragile, docile, inarticulate, primarily vegan, hygienically questionable, frequently shiftless, and endlessly fetishized by the media. Furthermore, the sexual encounters of both groups often occur between complete strangers, and are usually awkward, joyless, unfruitful affairs clumsily facilitated by third parties.
Let me show you what I mean.
It is Tuesday, 'round about midnight, and the strains of "Sweet Child O' Mine" beckon us upstairs to the lounge at the LES club Pianos. For the moment it's sparsely populated, offering clear sightlines with which to observe two grown men playing video games on a giant projection screen. The same video game. Guitar Hero. Guitar Hero II, actually. You are familiar with this, yes? Combining the principles of Simon, Dance Dance Revolution, and rock, Guitar Hero II involves manipulating a toy guitarwith five fretting buttons to form notes and chords, a clicker to strum up and down, and a whammy barin time with the color-coded and precisely timed actual songs whizzing by on-screen. This can be painfully simple or, at the "expert" difficulty level, painfully hard, if one is susceptible to hand cramping (Detroit Tigers pitcher Joel Zumaya missed games in last year's playoffs because of pain from playing too much Guitar Hero).
Late last year there was a sudden surge of Guitar Hero maniaMTV, for some reason, decided this was the future of its programming, via such detritus as live celebrity contests (two people with two toy guitars can rock the same song simultaneously and vie for higher accuracy). Not much has come of this. Understandably so. No one watches karaoke on television. This shit was meant for bars, for drunken, preposterous nights on the town. The sequel's release on Xbox 360 was announced by an evidently righteous PR circus a few weeks back at the Times Square Virgin Megastore, presided over by Gene Simmons (Kiss's "Strutter" is in the game), and with version two comes a renewed surge in this direction. The party, the bar event. The romantic accoutrement. Maybe.
So two young ladies sit at the Pianos bar, sipping demurely, the aura surrounding them fairly open and inviting. They are watching two gentlemen with toy guitars play the Pretenders' "Tattooed Love Boys." There are worse songs to have selected in this circumstance. (Warrant's "Cherry Pie," say.) There are probably better. The gentlemen thrash around valiantly. The young ladies watch absentmindedly, not terribly impressed by the skill on display here. Their aura darkens. Midway through the song, they get up and leave. The gentlemen do not notice. What is known in the business as a missed connection.
Perhaps it's remarkable that there are women here at all. "There's actually girls here!" marvels the weekly party's host, a filmmaker-promoter known professionally as Lord Easy, a few days afterward. "I'm thinking to myself, I'm like, 'OK, whatever, we're gonna start this video game party, and it's gonna be me and, like, 15 dudes.' But girls have been there!"
Lord Easy spends his evening on the mic, herding nervous patrons toward the sign-up sheet, singing along when the mood strikes him (he particularly enjoys "Heart-Shaped Box"), and offering to each round's winner a free shot of Cuervo Orange, which most winners seem wise enough to decline. And true to his word, there are girls here. There's one right now, a rank amateur, gamely wobbling through Spinal Tap's "Tonight I'm Gonna Rock You Tonight." And two more have arrived, taking up the spot vacated by those who fled in terror during "Tattooed Love Boys."
Incidentally, I may have neglected to mention that I am here to kick some ass.
Mine is not an amorous sojourn. As a moderately skilled Guitar Hero player myself, I seek to crush my enemies, see them driven before me, and hear the lamentations of the women. Not their phone numberstheir lamentations. But no, I am paired first with Adam, a tall, lithe dude who stretches out beforehand but is too unfamiliar with the game to engage in mortal combat. Adam speaks to me.
"Your head is in the way."
Indeed, my head is blocking the projector. I adjust and ask, "What do you want to play?"
" 'War Pigs' is pretty awesome."
"Isn't there any Rage on here?"
Why yes, Rage Against the Machine's "Killing in the Name" is on here. Lord Easy gets so excited during the ensuing shredfest (the game cannily edits around the repeated "Fuck you, I won't do what ya tell me" chant) that I'm pretty sure he knocks over a few beers. Adam spreads his legs impossibly wide and throws down to the best of his ability. At the song's conclusion, he is pleased with the results. "We rocked each other's faces off!" he announces. We awkwardly shake hands. A made connection.