Live at Vaudeville Mews | May 16, 2006
By Jake Henneman

No more than a few people in the handful of crowd members actually knew who The Robot Ate Me was. It is not uncommon for this type of thing to happen, but there were certainly people in the audience who would be far more comfortable in an Abercrombie & Fitch or American Eagle bobbing their head to ‘Take Me Out” while trying on a new vintage tee-shirt, than watching the band they were about to see. There were two girls a few chairs in front of me sitting with rather good posture, painstakingly kept hair, and make-up primly applied. They would not last the whole night.

One man band Ryland Bouchard came out in dirty clothes because “I didn’t have anything clean.” The stage was bare, a keyboard/beat machine lay across the ground, a few mics perched above, the only thing that stood out was the candy apple guitar slightly peeking out from a guitar case at stage rear. He came out shy and reserved, he nervously
introduced himself, soft-spokenly, and ran his hands through his hair, looking down. He then sat down on his knees in the middle of the stage, and concentrated heavily on the instruments laid out neatly and perfectly in front of him.

The night wouldn’t be as much one show as it was three different incarnations of the same man attacking his cynical electronics through different manifestations. Bouchard hunched over his keyboard/beat machine like a mad scientist with hands reaching every which way, concocting loops and eerie hooks. “They Ate Themselves” blared like a radioactive siren, and his voice was serene against the chaotic backdrop. The first few songs were all built up before sent crashing down in an ear-bleeding cacophony, so loud a handful of audience members covered their ears and gasped in disbelief, wondering if it was planned or simply a problem that would hopefully be corrected.

The aforementioned “problem” was solved. It was planned. How do I know? Because Ryland Bouchard was about to take the show to a whole new level. He stood up, microphone in hand, and insisted this relaxing show now be turned into a dance party. No one in the audience moved. Was he serious? He came down to crowd-level and asked the fifteen or so teenagers sitting on the floor in front of the stage to dance. A brave young teenage soul with his name (Steve) on his back in block lettering stood up and the two clasped hands. Bouchard began spinning around and spinning Steve around in a dance that looked more painful than effective. They looked as awkward as newborn fawns, limbs entangled by the spinning, off-balance, struggling to do the simplest of tasks. Bouchard went down on his knees and hugged Steve’s legs while singing. Steve got confused and looked around as puzzled as the rest of us and ended up just standing there dumbfounded. It would not be the first time Bouchard would be on the ground. On multiple occasions he ended up writhing on the floor, once during “Genocide Ball,” when he asked the crowd to scream bloody murder with him. If that song wasn’t haunting enough to the mostly unfamiliar crowd, many just stood and stared while Ryland led, and an ambitious few joined the blood-curdling-ness. It was madness. No one knew whether to clap after the end of the songs or run the fuck away. He continued with “Crispy Christian Tea Time,” a “children’s song,” and called someone from a crowd member’s cell phone, who luckily wasn’t home. A new track that was about “human head soccer” followed, and it seemed the chaotic, jolting screaming phase was wearing thin, and all that twirly dancing was getting more bothersome than amusing. Besides, because of all the spinning, he had gotten the mic chord wrapped around his neck forcing him to struggle to rip it off. People began filing out, and Ryland asked them why. They didn’t give a reason, just turned their back on him and left he and his music forever.

Those who left should be ashamed of themselves. I knew there was a genius somewhere deep within the cynical mind that is Bouchard’s, I mean, “Carousel Waltz” was utterly tear-bringingly brilliant. I scribbled “pure genius” next to my notes for “Just One Girl” and “Regret” was just voice and acoustic skeleton. I had already called one song genius, but I went ahead and wrote it again. He didn’t speak between these last few songs, and went back to the closed reserved nature as he showed in the beginning of the set. The final track was a long experimental, improvisation of a song featuring an aching piano loop and clarinet soothingly blended in like soft thunder to the rhythmic, calming rain. His songs can be genius – it’s a matter of application really. You could see pain and slow burning anguish coming through the notes, and it took it out of Ryland to play it. You could see it as the final notes left his clarinet.

In a barely audible voice, he shyly said he appreciated us coming out, and those who stayed to the end. Was this the same man who earlier was pounding effects from his keyboard and strewn about screaming on the floor? It was, and with that, an unambiguous end to a mindbendingly bizarre show. He announced to the crowd midway through the set, “My goal is to scare you into not coming to another show.” Whether he was serious or not, there’s no way I would miss the chance to see him again.

www.therobotateme.com
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