By Anna Marketti

Stumbling through the sparse crowd at the Sinclair on Monday night, viagra buy I found myself ascending the stairs up to the mezzanine level for the first time in my entire show history at The Sinclair. I perched on one of the steps, full of the eager feeling you get hearing a band for the first time. The crowd was still fairly bare as a duo from Los Angeles took the stage, donning T-shirts that looked homemade, and wide, sloppy smiles that portrayed a sense of this being one of their first performances ever. The Bots hurdled through a quick opening set, the guitarist leaping around the stage, his instrument tilted at wild angles. They played through the kind of angst-fueled songs pop-punk bands would have latched onto in 2009. Leaning into the mic to tell a story about a crazed girl he knew in high school who inspired their next song, the singer apologized to the audience for their lack of professionalism, as they weren’t the most experienced band. Though I wasn’t entirely absorbed in their performance, this comment seemed to validate that feeling- a bad move on their behalf. But their youthful, surfer/garage-rock attitude held up for most of their show.

Mere minutes after they departed the stage, floods of middle-aged people- apparent fans of the Augustines– pushed through the doors. The room filled up at an astonishing pace. I stood my ground at my carefully selected spot on the balcony, observing this collection of a crowd older than I’m used to. They filled up the floor space before the stage, and slowly spilled out onto the balcony with me. I felt uncomfortable; this was odd, because usually I’m quite fine by myself at concerts of unknown bands. I shifted as the crowd began chanting, slowly luring the band out onstage, sending the audience into a cacophony of cheers. With a slight bluegrass twang underneath their brand of emotional acoustic indie, the Augustines pour their heart and soul not only into their lyrics, but also into their performance. Singer Bill McCarthy cast out attempts at referencing Boston pop culture, giving a tiny smile when his jokes didn’t land. Sweat dripping from his face, each song was a performance of its own, requiring each element of the band to be giving 110%, plus some elbow grease. Crooning songs apple-pie sweet, it’s no wonder these guys were a favorite with the crowd they drew. Throughout their set, the singer could be found leaning out over the audience, encouraging them to engage in any sort of interaction with him. They seemed to pride themselves on being a highly interactive band, as each member grinned knowingly when McCarthy leaned backwards over the audience to rip a guitar solo. He then poked a jab at some “journalist” who had insulted him by stating he looked like a “retired NFL quarterback”. Suddenly, the lights dimmed, hushing even the loudest couples hanging onto the bar rail in the back. They passed a quick jab at New York- “Because it’s cool to hate New York, right?” McCarthy questioned, plucking out the delicate opening chords to Neil Young’s “Philadelphia”. It seemed to cast a spell over the audience, as everyone wailed about the “city of brotherly love” at the top of their lungs, slightly off key, and a little off rhythm, but all in a sickeningly endearing way. They closed out their set with a two song encore, much to the audience’s delight and sound crew’s chagrin.

It was certainly a strange juxtaposition of bands, combining the campy garage rock of the Bots with the almost mournful indie of the Augustines. And as people filtered rapidly in prior to the latter taking the stage, a strange divided feeling of being at two completely different shows fell over the Cambridge venue. A strange show, but not necessarily a bad one.