Wednesday, January 13, 1999
Zen the Alien beams into The Gig for Monday night show
MUSIC: Group reveals passion for performance despite meager
turnout
By Vanessa VanderZanden
Daily Bruin Senior Staff
Monday nights are slow, even in a fast town like Los Angeles.
Clubs tend to run crappy acts, if they bother to open their doors
at all. But this past Monday, a diamond in the rough shone through
the dead streets and dismal, back-to-work vibe.
A few people grouped outside the front door of West Los Angeles’
The Gig while a few less straggled within. At 10:30, the
long-haired threesome, Zen the Alien, took their place on the small
stage, dressed to kill at any ’80s rocker dive. But the swanky,
plush, sofa-filled Gig proved no pit, and the black-jeaned
musicians rocked harder than any cheese-ball act they may have
seemed to impersonate.
Lead singer Michael Bedik became Fabio’s rock star embodiment,
with less muscle. Belting out chords next to the ever-smiling
cowgirl bassist, Brittany Pederson, Bedik soon played the king of
on-stage comfort. He brought the handful of audience members into
his world, as though The Gig were his living room and the crowd his
group of personal friends.
Although the first song caught the audience’s attention, with
Bedik screaming the easy, slapped-together lyrics, "I need a girl,
yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah," the second work grabbed hold. This
catchier track revealed more lift with a slicker, smoother bass
draw. Wailing, "Everything’s gonna be all right, now that you’re
out of my life; trash day," Bedik had audience members guessing.
Was this just a goofy song about the joy of having the garbage
taken out, or a metaphor for getting rid of a good-for-nothing
lover? Or did both coincide on the same day?
In essence, this whimsical approach reflects the appeal of Zen
the Alien. Never taking themselves too seriously, they delivered a
solid, yet relaxed, show. Even without regular drummer Danny Olsen,
who fell down some stairs, the trio shook the joint with spunky
enthusiasm. The replacement drummer, John Boker of Reactor, joked
playfully with Bedik throughout the performance. He gave away just
how much fun the musicians were having by being allowed to play for
anyone, anywhere.
The tune "Don’t Remind Me," included a repetitive chorus,
calling attention to how insulting it must be as a performer to
hear only about five pairs of clapping hands in a joint that could
easily pack in 50 times that amount. Yet, the thumping bass drum,
and low, throaty growl of Bedik returned the song to the days when
music was played for fun, not profit. Regardless of the fact that
patrons traipsed in and out of the space solely to order more
drinks, Zen the Alien provided good-time music to refuel the
crowd’s waning energy.
Although Zen proved most comfortable with thumping, bar-room
beats and squealing rhythms, they explored alternate sounds as
well. One song had definite head-bopping appeal, with a slippery
guitar scale squirming out the amplifier. More black-shirted
hipsters trickled into the room as Bedik’s voice climbed up the
notes right along with the pull of the metal strings, drawn from
the heavy lower regions to the whiny neck of the instrument.
Immediately after, Bedik chuckled, "Now we’re gonna try a
snazzy-jazzy number." With that, Zen the Alien climbed into a
bouncy, swinging piece that had both lounge act charisma and a
punk-bang beat. This offered quite a wake up call to those burnt
out from the first day of winter classes.
"Don’t go, we are your friends," Bedik quipped into the
microphone, mid-song, as a couple slid out the door. He continued,
as if on cue, "and the beat goes on."
As the set wore on, Bedik’s voice became more convinced of its
ability to float tranquilly through the black-walled venue. Taking
on a silky-smooth texture, he swarthily crooned, "Too many have
fallen down in your waters, down in the swamp where you lay, lean
your head my way." The guitar soon broke off into a soulful murk,
as the darkly droning piece spun into oblivion.
"Isn’t this more fun than watching a band who rehearses?" Bedik
joked after he and Boker concluded that "we don’t know two more
songs." Still, they managed to scrape together a clever couple of
tracks.
The first incorporated a bippy, roll-along sort of feel with an
ultra-cool slap scratch on the metal strings. Bedik roughly belted,
"she’s all wasted, playin’ in the back, livin’ in Las Vegas, Hell,
she’s never comin’ back." The catchy track cruised along smoothly,
never sitting down or falling to pieces.
The last piece, "Fallin’," took on a sadder note, becoming more
of a rock ballad than previous works. Still, it stayed away from
the dangerous territory of Winger-drivel, focusing instead on a
twangy rock star whine. Songs like this, about losing a girl, are
what make rock music what it is.
Zen the Alien shredded without taking it over the line into
rambunctious cheese-pop. Most of the well-conceived songs came and
went without leaving too much of a residue. Yet, if played on the
radio enough times, it remained evident that the songs would stick
on the brain.
But whether the group of long-haired, black-jeaned musicians
ever gets air time or not seemed of little consequence. They came
to rock out, joke around and drink some beer. Even if no one cared
very particularly to listen.
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