By CP Staff
By Olivia LaVecchia
By Chris Parker
By Jesse Marx
By John Baichtal
By Olivia LaVecchia
By Jesse Marx
By Olivia LaVecchia
In an attempt to rein the discussion in, I interrupt the shop talk to pose a simple question. "Were you guys excited to hear that you won Picked to Click?" I ask. "How did you react?"
And then there is silence. The band glance sidelong at one another and collectively shrug. O'Laughlin, the youngest member, takes a bite of his burger and admits that, yeah, he thinks it's pretty cool. Hermanson and bassist Heath Henjum nod in agreement. After a pause, Appelwick breaks the silence to talk about a recent video shoot for "Motobike," a song about scooter accidents; while it was being made O'Laughlin appropriately though inadvertently crashed his rented moped ("It was an accident, okay?" "Well, you were hot-rodding").
The group's stubborn refusal to rejoice in their achievement strikes me as strange. But then, glancing at their CD, I realize that this is a new mood, one that doesn't come through on the record--except in the band's logo, an acronym that says it all.
To be fair, "oh" might be the appropriate response. To sit in with the band for a drink is to hear them chat one another other up, and it doesn't take long to recognize their dedication, not only to this band but to their musical careers. If you work as hard for as long as they have, you start expecting your dues.
As many who cast their votes in this poll will tell you, selecting a winner was a no-brainer. The election was cinched long before polling began--a fact made all the more obvious with a peek at the polling numbers. (Olympic Hopefuls won nearly twice as many points as the second-place contender.) You don't have to be John Zogby to forecast that kind of outcome. The Hopefuls were expected to perform well among the 16-to-21-year-old female demographic, thanks to their one-two-three combo of a sock-hopping debut, sexy uniforms, and five pairs of pink cheeks just ripe for the pinching. Add to that the well-publicized fact that every single member of Olympic Hopefuls plays in at least one other band, and four of those bands (Alva Star, the Beatifics, Kid Dakota, and Vicious Vicious) have already made it into the hallowed poll's ranking in the past (though none has won). All of this makes them more than a single band; they're a cluster of musical vortices, five scenester mushrooms planting pop spores in countless bars, clubs, studios, and headphones across the state. Add a vast network of fans that crashes Friendster accounts and attracts Picked to Click votes like pig snouts to truffles, and you've got yourself one groomed candidate for the job (inasmuch as one can call Kid Dakota "groomed"--have you seen that dude's hair lately?)
And that's to say nothing of the music, which is, in fact, what we're talking about (that, and fantasy football). The Olympic Hopefuls won because of The Fuses Refuse to Burn, and that record succeeds because it's a study in pop songs, short and sweet, that appeal to everyone's inner WB drama. I'd be lying if I said the album had something for everyone--it's too one-dimensional for that. But it's so full of sweet, harmless, innocent hooks that it's impossible not to get snagged on one of them and to be reminded of a time when, once, we were sweet, harmless, and innocent, too.
So yes, it was all but inevitable that the Olympic Hopefuls would win. But this was a landslide of--my apologies--Olympian proportions. This was an outpouring, a citywide pat on the back, one big resounding chorus of Way to be, boys, now go make us proud! Say hello to Hollywood! Don't look back and don't forget to thank us when you win that Grammy! And considering their shoo-in candidacy, their careerist approach to music, their proven doggedness, and their obvious talent, "oh" may be the best word to describe the Olympic Hopefuls. Le mot juste, as the French say (ironically, at that, since it's a two-word phrase). "Oh" addresses the core of the Olympic Hopefuls' appeal: When no true word will do, "oh" steps in, slight and powerful, clears its throat, and finishes the job. It means everything and signifies nothing; whereas other words play the part of the middleman between things and their meanings, "oh" just...is. Like the Hopefuls' unashamed bubblegum pop, an assault of chord changes so familiar that they resonate, however hard we may try to conceal it, our innermost being, "oh" is primordial. It existed before language, in the battle cries and orgasms of those who, many millennia later, may have been rock stars themselves. And the echoes of those coital outbursts survive today, in every teary-eyed "Oh, sweet Jesus, I love this band!" that comes from the crowd at an O.H. show.
So I don't press the band to expound on their shrugging ascension to their post atop the Twin Cities music scene. I accept it quietly, as they have. I sip my beer, and reframe the question.
"Well, did you at least expect to win?"
More silence, and then Jackson deadpans, "We expected to win, but we didn't think we would."
The band smiles--there's the mood I was looking for! And I respond the best way I can: