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Ketchup. That is the first thing that comes to mind when thinking of ways in which to use the word “squeeze.” That, or when I am trying to claim some couch space between Peter Griffin and Alanis Morissette. Squeeze in, she has got one hand in her pocket and the other one is giving Peter a high-five. Squeeze is a funny word, one you might say a total of 42 times in your life just based on the fact that it has little to no use when filling out a Pub order. “I’d like a piece of cheese squeezed in between two pieces of bread.” That is called a grilled cheese you baffoon, now get out of here before I squeeze ketchup packets all over you and Alanis.

Now just imagine referring to someone as your main squeeze. What does that even mean, a main squeeze? It is a humorous expression that gained its trendiness in the 1970s, as people began using it as a way to describe the person, out of all their sexual partners, who they liked best and spent most of their time with. A good example is Mozart and his main squeeze Butch Cassidy, or Bob Dylan alongside Joan Baez. Now, where do you see yourself referring to someone as your main squeeze. At the Science Library? In Rebert North? Of course not, those places do not inspire one to utilize the expression. But at the Java Barn, where some of the dizzying glamour and glory of the 70s seems to have remained, you just might refer to the person you are sitting next to on the piano in the corner as just that: your main squeeze.

The Main Squeeze, the band that trolled through the Barn last week, is one that Colin Kirkland ’16 refers to as “dude, a quintessential Java band.” They were not just good or okay or alright; they were PHENOMENAL. As the crowd thinned after set-break, and the devoted patrons of the Barn stuck around, The Main Squeeze allowed us to splash around in their enormous puddle of talent. Their cover of “Bulls on Parade” by Rage Against the Machine was just ABSURD. The keyboard player, Ben “Smiley” Silverstein, went into a solo that had everyone and their cranial space melting onto the floor. And when they played “Still D.R.E.” by Dr. Dre, I swear people have not been that lit on a Thursday since the Watergate Scandal.

Falling in love with this band in the span of a few hours was effortless; it felt so right, like that first date when you wore a Groutfit and it went over better than you thought it ever could. The Main Squeeze was electric, they infected your fun cells, and it was utterly and absolutely impossible to leave the show. Believe me, I kept trying, but it just kept getting better and better. After 40 minutes of dancing in my coat I realized the only option was to keep having my ear drums squeezed by the vocal chords of Corey Frye, the kimono-clad frontman. In the spirit and name of their sophomore album, I must say this; mind your head. Ducking into their musical funk emporium of sound is no decision to be taken lightly. Their soul, their melodious presence, is asking you the same question Wolfgang whispered to Butch as they sat squished on the couch: “Will you be mine, my main squeeze?” Boom, Serenade in G Major.