|
The original Golden Bubble lured strapping, work-a-day lads and farmer’s daughters out of the cornfields and little homes on the prairie and onto its glittering, hardwood dance floor. Here the hot lights and traveling band's intoxicating rhythms fed that collective desire of the pioneer's children to be at once more dashing and reckless than their stoic Midwestern upbring allowed.
As the paisley suits and poodle skirts faded the way of Technicolor and Eisenhower political pomp, replaced instead by big box diners, home entertainment centers, and interstates to escape the farm in quicker, more covert fashion, the toe-tapping big bands lost frequency at the Golden Bubble and soon only flyers of former shows and fast food bags littered the vacant parking lot surrounding the old, tired façade in the middle of a field.
But then something unexpected happened six miles north in the sleepy, farming village of Wells. Some local boys, schooled not only in the vintage doo-wop, hip-shaking rock ‘n’ roll, and hearty folk sing-a-longs of their ancestor’s generations but also in the disco and jazz of more contemporary tastemakers, formed a band that conjured up from the dead those wailing melodies and irresistible backbeat that once made the Golden Bubble dance hall a diamond in the prairie.
Beginning in the summer of 2006, the boys began calling themselves The Golden Bubbles, providing tonics and aesthetics that capture both the spirit of an era of a more innocent musical pastime – before postmodernism and the culture industry firmly sank in – and the persuasions of modern pop and indie music found in your everyday arcade, radio station, shoe commercial, and astute friend’s iPod.
Crafting this at-times sugary, at-times bombastic, and at-times eloquent musical wedding is the two Vondracek boys (Christopher on piano and Leo on bass) and “Rock Steady” Jared Fette on drums. To complete the sonic tapestry, the melding of a confounding sound, simultaneously new and old – like the disarming acclimation in conversation to a stranger who suddenly feels like a long, lost friend, lover, or family (please read Dave Eggers’ short “The Accident”) – the gentlemen don white jeans, ties, shoes, and vests, coupled with canary yellow pearl-button shirts and socks, to complete the visual artistry. It's like art deco glamor for the working class pocketbook.
Above all else, The Golden Bubbles make the daily pilgrimage to that mystic, forgotten place where it's not just guilty pleasure to sing along with the radio or in the shower or in your car on the way to work or to lose yourself to the first measure of MJ's "Billie Jean," but entirely supported and necessary. They occupy a pop musical paradise, and you're all invited.
Delivering the Pentecostal sickness to your temperance movement, the gasmask to your airborne toxic event, the wool coat to your 5 a.m. milk run, the real phantasm to your Jaycees Haunted House, the cool kid to the corner, the fairy visions to a dragon-ravaged nightmare, your words to a cry in the dark, and her heart into your hands: please welcome, The Golden Bubbles.
|
