Nobody likes No Fun Guy. No dancing—the jerk’s too busy explaining how this next batch of prefab day-school elite the Bravery ripped the last batch of prefab day-school elite, and that’s not very brave of them, cough, if you know what I mean, cough. No eyeliner either—right now No Fun Guy’s yuck-yucking with his No Fun Friends how Bravery members look exactly like the lead singers of other bands kids dig (left to right, Hot Hot Heat, Fischerspooner, the Strokes, the Faint, Riverdale High School Jazz Band). Drugs? Forget it: No Fun Guy’s already back in midtown blogging how the Bravery’s lead singer Sam Endicott used to front a ska band—Skabba the Hut, no less—hoping someone will leave him some ha-ha.
The Guy’s got a point, though: What’s with all this “they make me dance, so fuck all if they’re unoriginal” shit? When did “dance band” become the “I can say ‘nigger’ cuz I’m black” people’s court get-out-of-jail-free card? The Bravery go one step further even, telling NME, “The point of rock ‘n’ roll in the first place was dance music.” So, at the risk of not “getting” the Bravery and now rock ‘n’ roll itself, everyone best keep their quips quiet—especially the one how Endicott, who jumps skin from Julian Casablancas to Robert Smith to the guy from the Killers in just three tracks, has less charisma than a mustard plug.
Instead, let’s mouth along when our very own Luke Skawalker burps, “I don’t see no ring on these fingers,” and let’s shake out our naked hands so the girl in the corner knows we party extra hard. Let’s buy Ferraris we can’t afford and speed down I-95, so when “No Brakes” comes on the radio we can nudge each other, snort some more amoxicillin, and unironically put the accelerator pedal to the floor. Most importantly, let’s not ask the Bravery to justify any artistic decisions—there are none. These songs have practical applications (make whitey dance), years of research behind them (whitey likes synth and steady beats), and quantifiable results (whitey’s dancing). Right, like we can disprove the scientific method!
So here we are, a bunch of assholes riding the industry’s Next Big Sybian, obeying other people’s hips because we fear being blacklisted stiffs and dad-rockers. The struggle is finished. We love Big Bravery. And tomorrow morning, when we wake up in a pool of mascara and Red Bull, let’s call Mom and tell her how much fun we’re having.
The Bravery play the Bowery Ballroom April 17 and 18.