Nightmare Coverband Showcase
by Ebun Lawore, Staff Writer
Sometimes I feel like everyone is sitting around campus waiting for Coverband Showcase to happen. I’m not gonna lie, it's kind of weird. Yes, there is a reason that Coverband is one of the most highly anticipated events every semester on this campus. It’s usually super fun. Key word: usually.
I feel that because Coverband is so highly anticipated, it is also very easily overhyped. That’s where I come in. I’m here to remind you that Coverband can suck. And this is how.
You and your friends start pregaming at 9:30pm, but because all of your friends are under 21, you can’t buy alcohol. You beg your upperclassmen friend to buy you some, but they are already too drunk to drive to Johnny’s: they started pregaming at 9:00pm. They give you their leftover stuff: three-quarters of a bottle of Pink Whitney, 2 half-empty cans of Four Loko, and a burnt cart. They also say that you should probably hurry up: the doors are already open.
In a frenzy, you and friends down all of the alcohol and try your best not to cough up hits of the cart. You put your poppers and your vape in your pocket and sprint to the ‘Sco, holding your stomachs so that you don’t puke rainbow. The line is already going outside of Wilder. You wait for thirty minutes to get in, and by the time you enter, everyone’s sweat has already made the floors and walls of the room slick to touch. You’re in the back row and you can’t see the stage, but if you go on your tiptoes you risk slipping on the sweat and breaking your ankles.
It’s 10:15 and the concert still hasn’t started. The drummer of the first band is high on shrooms and now he can’t tell the difference between a snare and a tom. You decide to pass the time by looking on WOBC’s Insta to see who all of the bands are covering. All of the bands are all-white, all male, indie rock emo electronic post punk screamo bands who each have less than 5,000 monthly listeners on Spotify. Once the music starts, you realize that all of your whitest, gayest, New York-est friends know all of the lyrics. You pretend to mouth the words so that you don’t look stupid.
It’s 10:45 and at this point all of the music sounds the same. Every lead singer looks like an ugly version of Jane Remover, and they can’t sing, like at all. Every high note sounds like a 12-year-old boy in the throes of puberty. Every guitarist thinks that they're playing the solo right, every drummer thinks that they’re in tempo, and every bassist is playing the baseline with deep fear behind their eyes. You’re wasted but that isn’t even helping.
You try to relieve yourself by pulling out your poppers, but now your hand is wet. Your whole bottle of poppers spilled in your pocket. Now you smell like poppers, but you’re not even on them, and it looks like you pissed your pants. For the next 30 minutes everyone around you asks you if they can sniff your poppers, and then you have to be reminded of the tragic mess that is soaked into your jeans.
It’s 11:15. Every. Song. Sounds. The. Same. You finally successfully pushed your way to the front, just in time for one of the lead singers to attempt crowdsurfing. He dives directly towards you and his head smashes into your tits. Now he’s concussed. Now you have a bruise on your tits.
It’s 11:30. There are still five bands left because every band decided to ignore the rules and make their sets thirty minutes long. Decafe is closed. There is no water left in the ‘Sco. It looks like if you tried to escape, you’d be trampled to death by all of the Oberlin men above 6’ 5” that are currently surrounding you. You pull out your Geek Bar and as soon as the vapor leaves your lips, the ‘Sco manager starts screaming at you to “GET THE FUCK OUT.” None of your friends volunteer to come with you, so you push through the crowd with all of the strength left in your body. The lead singer of the current band is scream-singing a song about having severe mommy issues. The sound is deafening, the lights are blinding, and everyone with boots is stepping on your toes.
You escape the crowd with a scratch on your face from somebody’s septum piercing, and potentially a broken toe. You reach for your vape for some form of relief, only to hit it and realize that it’s horribly burnt and basically dead. The taste is so horrific that you puke bright pink all over the steps of Wilder. You call Rideline to drive you home but it keeps going straight to voicemail. You make the trek home alone, all your dignity lost somewhere inside of Wilder Hall.
Prepare yourself. All of that could definitely happen to you at Coverband.
