I love Snapcase. There. I said it.
It's a safe bet that I'm twice as old as most of their fans. I'm a veritable dinosaur in the hardcore scene. When I go to shows the kids try to carbon-date me. (Or they think I'm the landlord.) But, whippersnappers be damned, I'm not ashamed to admit my profound affection for the greatest musicians to come out of Buffalo, New York since Mr. Big's Billy Sheehan. Indeed, Snapcase's hardcore is a hardcore that spans the ages.
While most of my peers have moved on to the calming, less abrasive sounds of alt-country, I remain true till death, due to the undeniable glory in the crunch pulled out of Frank Vicario and Jon Salemi's dual guitar assault, moving restlessly below the earnest wailing of Daryl Taberski. And the low end! Holy moly, the low end! It hit me in the chest like a sledgehammer when I was a kid, and it still does today. You want breakdowns? They'll give you breakdowns, friend. You want jumping around and angst-ridden expressions? Oh, you got 'em, tough guy. But don't think it's all cheap mosh parts and four-chord madness rehashed for the umpteenth time. No sir, it's as intricate and layered as you please. In fact, I'm fond of describing Snapcase as the thinking man's hardcore.
My birthday is coming up. I will turn 30, i.e. over the hill. No more stage dives, no more circle pits, and no more spicy food after 5 pm. It's all senior discounts, adult diapers, and early bird specials at the Old Country Buffet ("Make my creamed spinach vegan, wouldja Grace?") come January 12. October 9 is perhaps my last chance to see Snapcase before I am required by law to trade in my dancing shoes for corrective orthopedics and my lust for life for Viagra. I will be floor-punching with a fury, for I will rage against the dying of the light to the soothing sounds of Snapcase keeping it real.