AARGH! Event Parking! Should've figured that. I was going to park by Muddy's and walk over the bridge anyway. It was nice out.

Thinking I'm late already I zip back over 101, park, and hustle over the graffiti splattered walkway. I wonder who painted the portraits on the south side of the undercrossing? I like the guy with the beard, but some doofus that thinks he's hard has tagged all the good stuff down here. Older folks say that the youth of today are nothing but a bunch of hoodlums. Sometimes I wonder if they're right. Clearly the morons that tagged the “actual art” need a spanking at the very least.

I lumber up those ridiculous stairs to find that Death Cab For Cutie not only requires a sixty foot tour coach, but also an 18 wheeler to shuttle their gear from venue to venue. Somehow I doubt that bright red rig runs on bio-diesel. Shame, shame. Willie Nelson would be so bummed.

Apparently Death Cab played with Dave Matthews last week and the Dali Lama was in attendance. I wonder what he drives?

”Um, excuse me. Do you have any extra tickets?”

”No. Sorry.”

”Hey, where is the VAN DUZEN?”

”Way south off 101.”

”Huh?”

“You're looking for the VAN DUZER. It's right up those steps.”

Standard verbiage. Sold out show. I'm still not sure how the T-S swung this one. Press credentials. “”Ha-haa!!”!!” But sadly or regrettably or both: I have no backstage pass. I'm lumped in with all the regular folks. Row N. Seat 5. What am I doing here? What do I hope to find?

”Oh my GAWD! I'm Sooo excited!”

Two seconds later: “This is sooo cool. Oh my Gosh!”

And a third: “Oh-my-god-I'm-so-excited!”

”If I get to meet Chris Walla I'm totally going to talk to him about vegetarianism!” A member of the student press. Hilarious. All right. Time to find my seat.

The stage is immaculate. I see why they need the semi: All 53 feet of it.

I'm a little too antsy to just sit so I wander. Back outside for a smoke. Chat up some other press affiliates. I wish I was drunk.

The Cave Singers open, and I find myself completely disinterested so I split to the Depot with Rico, Rose and Joe (my Jambalaya family) for a beer.

Three beers later I find I'm a little more enthused. We did some out loud readings of the Arcata Exchange want ads. Seriously hysterical. Fyhre, will you really give me a monthly haircut and (possibly) weekly massage? I'm sold!

We made it back in time for Death Cab's sound check, entirely missing the Cave Singers. Oops. The crowd cheered for the techs testing drums and guitars as though they were band members.

”Check one two, two TWO!” Applause and screaming follows. Then one of them said, “Cheese steak.” That made me laugh.

I question the fellow sitting next to me about the band. See, I have no clue about their music. I get, “Yeah, my name's David. You're in The Rubberneckers right?”

”Ha Ha HA!” This causes me to flee my seat for standing room in the back. Rico, Rose, and Joe are there playing grabass, slumped against the back wall. At least my jacket and hoody have a seat. I was worried: No coat check? I hope David's not going through my pockets.

Lights: DIM. Stage lights: UP! Everyone: SCREAMS! Band: ROCKS RIGHT INTO IT!

Wow, the sound is great. Bass guitar and kick drum rumble the floor. Vocals are perfectly compressed. Guitars rigid with expert tone.

The strobe lights threaten to give me a seizure so I close my eyes and just listen. That just makes me wish the guitars were louder as the bass muddies the mix.

I open my eyes to take in the light show. It's making me seriously love that great big red semi truck.

The songs sound disturbingly the same but rock in that way that radio music in the 21st Century rocks. I mean, they've got the formula figured out. Labels have got “packaging the band” down to a science. The songs are all exactly the right length. The vocal hook comes in right at 45 seconds with the guitar hook right on time as well.

Ooh, keyboard!

By the 5th song much of the crowd has stood or left their seats in favor of a spot down front. It's way too claustrophobic for me down there. I'd have 16 tiny heart attacks and have to split for the back wall so that's where I stay, furiously scribbling in my notebook.

After the 6th song someone yells, “Encore!” Funny.

It occurs to me around the 7th or 8th song that despite major label packaging, huge diesel guzzling semi trucks, and formulaic song writing that this band is (this one's for you Joe) “actually” good. I mean, it's polished to perfection, something my punk roots scream against, but I don't mind (or at least I try not to mind).

At this point Ben Gibbard, their lead singer, tells the audience, “Our next album comes out in a couple weeks. We're going to play some songs from it now.” He elicits more cheers, and they plow into the new material, stumbling over a few notes here and there. They are new songs after all. Maybe they're not as polished as I think. The next few songs are good...right?

Mere minutes later I can tell by how the crowd screams that this next number is one of the hits. Yeah, the “Soul Meets Body” one with ethereal harmonies from Chris Walla who has switched to keyboard again. The faithful sing along. Nice one guy.

The hits continue. “...I will possess your heart...” Good hook. A little creepy though.

I gather my jacket from where it's getting the benefit of my seat so I can make a speedy getaway. The heat in here is making me sleepy. My brain feels a little mushy. The fact that I only got three hours of sleep last night does not help my condition.

Another new song, “No Sunlight Anymore” comes up. Something about, “the world crumbling around you but in a fun way,” Gibbard explains.

My psyche and attention span are quickly crumbling around me, but not exactly in a fun way. Hmm, I figure I gave them an hour. My eyes aren't involuntarily closing because I find their music boring, but that is part of it. They sound good, great even. The songs are catchy and well rehearsed, and the sound is exquisite. The lights are perfect, and the show well scripted, but ultimately this is not for me.

Hibbard sings, “You can't find nothing at all if there was nothing there all along,” as I'm leaving. What was it I was hoping to find? Sometimes life is tragically poetic indeed.

Then I push through the exit doors and realize, OH CRAP, it's RAINING! Damn event parking!

Clay Smith does wish he had just paid the $2.50 or whatever price instead of getting ironically soaked walking to his car. Write him at clay@therubberneckers.com.