Fastball, Stubb's, October 28

Fastball

Stubb's, October 28

First things first. Miles Zuniga has always been a pop star waiting for his stage, and tonight he's on it. Looking the part -- posh haircut, smart boots, tight trousers -- he's no longer crowded in a corner at the Hole in the Wall, and instead towers above us on Stubb's outdoor stage. He's always longed for pop stardom, and now he's got it. So why isn't he smiling? Tony Scalzo -- dear Tony -- is clad in a denim Wrangler shirt and baggy blue jeans, terribly unglamorous, awfully alt.country. Does the apathetic attire portend a mellow, uninspired show from the dazzling bass player? (Flashback: Young Scalzo of Magneto USA, hyperactively thin, veins bulging in his chicken neck, marching -- always marching with clear-eyed pride. Cut to the present: Glazed, shaggy, bored Tony watching the royalty checks roll in.) Thankfully, someone has plugged him in tonight; he's wearing his marching shoes -- royal blue, old-school Nikes. Unfortunately, Fastball no longer makes marching music. While they've deprecatingly dubbed their music "secretary rock," their show brims with songs far more adventurous and authentic than the usual "Mix" fare they rotate with. Tonight's crowd, however, is just plain weird. Women wave and hold up signs saying things like, "Miles! You are so awesome!!!" Middle school boys, meanwhile, pump their fists as if for Korn. Couples with dated haircuts nuzzle to "Out of My Head." These are people for whom a show is an entertainment option, not a lifestyle, and they're clearly here for the singles. They whoop for "You're an Ocean," "Fire Escape," and even an acoustic version of "The Way," which spotlights drummer Joey Shuffield's muscles on bongo, and a hilarious, guitar-free, Vegas Tony who smokes, mugs, and ... dances? Though the band play an inventive, road-tight set, their musicality is irrelevant in light of who they're addressing. And the band knows it. Watching the local boys try to get it up for a crowd they can't look in the eye is a bit disheartening, worsened by the phoniness of the new guitarist, who squeezes every bit of emotion out of his brief solos like a displaced Arc Angel. There is simply no need to subject us to the silly sex faces of a hired hand when Miles is a competent and very real guitarist. The new guy's behavior is totally wrong in a band that refuses to engage in rock hyperbole. In fact, only when they emulate the rock stars they worship during a cover of Bowie's "Life on Mars" do the boys pout and pose, gleefully reveling in the pretension of rock stardom. Yet when the song ends gloriously, the modest crowd bails without a lick of gratitude, not even pretending to ask for an encore. They check their watches and jump into their SUVs before the babysitter costs them any more money. No Rock & Roll Circus, no Gimme Shelter, this scene in no way resembles the concert footage of the rock greats the boys studied so assiduously. If this is what the rest of the tour is going to look like, it's no wonder that Miles has lost his smile. Better it were a button on his trousers.