It's the first night of local hardcore/ska heroes the Mighty Mighty Bosstones' "5 Show Let It Snow Ho-Ho-Hometown Throwdown" (at least that's what the posters and program guide call it), and the Middle East is packed with one the most diverse crossover audiences ever assembled: pin-pierced punks with spiky mohawks, muscle-bound skinhead chicks who could kick your ass, plaid-clad teens dressed as their favorite Bosstones, sorority girls with plaid scrunchies (followed closely by their beer-hugging jock beaus), indie-rock shoe-gazing twentysomethings and a small enclave of curious parents wondering, "What is this thing called ska?"
Although last year's five-night throwdown sold out at as well, no doubt the smartly dressed, horn-totin' heavy metal octet has seen its audience grow since opening this year's Lollapalooza bill. There's a mix of old friends and familiar faces, and a few people who look like they dropped in to ask for directions to somewhere far away.
Before their set, the Bosstones mingle with the crowd, signing autographs and chatting with fans. As one poster is being inked, a passing teen rebel jabs a finger at it. "I'll have this hanging in my bedroom," he proudly announces. "I stole it from Taang!''
Mike McCarthy, singer for teen punkers Beezwax -- emulators of the Bosstones' style and sound who will open Saturday night's gig -- waves his five-day, all-access pass with the pride of an Olympic torchbearer. "Right now this thing is my life," he beams.
The house lights dim and the Bosstones' set takes on the appearance of leftover Las Vegas: strings of Christmas lights hang from the ceiling and blinking white bulbs outline the amps and drum kit. The whole stage glows with holiday cheer.
One by one, the Bosstones take their places. It's probably been a year since they've played in such a cramped setting.
Why are the Bosstones wearing wool gabardine suits, Oxford shirts, ties and bowler hats in an 80-degree club with humidity to match? I'd hate to be their dry cleaner.
At the sound of the first trumpet blast, the crowd erupts into action, and within seconds one of the house lights gets nailed by an overzealous surfer. Not surprisingly, this is just the first of many swats roof-fixture equipment will endure throughout the night.
Slapping numerous high fives and pushing tumbling bodies back into the fracas before him, singer Dicky Barrett somehow manages to not miss a word of "Howwhywuz, Howwhyam." I guess that's what makes him a professional.
The first stage diver is caught onstage in the silence between songs (a cardinal, if not mortal, sin for all punk rockers). Barrett, who has had enough of the "audience participation," tells the lad: "If you need to be onstage, you better not be drunk (which the stage diver seems to be). And you better be up here to do something special. What's your talent?" Drunk wanna-be stage diver incoherently mumbles to Barrett. DB: "OK I'm done. This guy knows the words to all our songs, so I'm outta here." Just as he's about to hand off the mike, the crowd boos. "Sing this one with me," Barrett challenges his left-hand man as the band strikes up a snail's-pace version of "Little Drummer Boy." Stage diver screws up on the "par-rum-pum-pum-pums." Barrett promises to forgive him if he dismounts with a spectacular flip. Predictably, we are all disappointed.
Barrett goes on a brief tirade against violent moshers and people hanging from the rafters, kicking lights and generally damaging the club. Which makes me wonder: Should there be a list of "Mosh Pit Do's and Don'ts?"
Barrett asks fans what they want to hear, warning: "If anyone requests a song we didn't write, I'm coming out there." He accepts "Cowboy Coffee," and after that, the Btones refuse to entertain any other choices.
The Bosstones premiere a new song, likely called ''An Eye for an Eye" (if the refrain is any indicator). It's faster, more of a metal tune with chunky riffs. A fine achievement for the band, except the horn player doesn't see much action.
"Dr. D." The Btones are as into it as the crowd, acting like loons and sweating up a storm. The stage is covered with moshpit flotsam.
"Where'd You Go?" Everyone starts pogoing like a pack of perked-up kangaroos.
Spike! A stage diver is shoved back into the crowd like a weak volleyball serve.
Fashion faux pas sighting: A thirtysomething gent, trying too hard to fit in with his younger "peers," wearing a plaid pullover that matches his beret, like MMB camouflage or something.
Life imitates art. "One dive for old times' sake?" Barrett asks the crowd rhetorically, knowing well what they want. "Jesus, I'm 53 years old. I've got no vertical lift." Perhaps DB saw this moment coming six years ago when he recorded "Do Somethin' Crazy," with the line, "I wanna be crazy/ Like I used to be." But now he's just an old fart. A weak dive later, the band strikes up its 33 rpm version of the Bob Marley 45 "Simmer Down."
Not ready to have their party pooped on so easily, the younger, more spry fans continue to celebrate in the pit, discounting their idol's ailments.
Uh-oh. The 82nd song of the evening is starting to sound like a smorgasbord of songs they've already played. There is a brief surge for the exit.
"What is the attraction of me coming out there?" Barrett asks. "I'm on top of your heads and you can touch me. Instead of me jumping out there, I'll hug you all on the way out. I promise."
Whether stricken by Christmas cheer or rewarding fans for coming to their first local show in more than a month, the Btones had promised gifts for the first 500 people at the door. However, this produces an unfortunate side effect: People start clamoring for the exit during "Little Bit Ugly,'' eager to scoop up their freebies.
At five minutes, this tune is an extended jam for the Btones.
* * Boston Herald music writer Geoffrey Kula wears plaid boxers.