In my house, typical kids' cereal was strictly forbidden.  I was allowed only cereal of the healthy, fiber-addled variety, such as All Bran, Cracklin' Oats, Special K (which now means something completely different to me), Mini-Wheats, and so on.

By age 10, I could pass a Geo Metro through my lower intestine.

By far, the undisputed champion of kids' cereal was Fruit Loops.  I of course saw the commercials every Saturday morning—in fact, I lived the commercials.  Do you know what it feels like to watch all of your desires personified in animated characters, only to have your dreams stolen like those damn kids who always stole the cereal from the Lucky Charms leprechaun?

It wasn’t until summer camp when I was exposed not only to sugared cereal, but to sugar in all its glorious and sumptuous forms.  However, I soon learned the law of supply and demand.  Campers dashed to the Fruit Loops, leaving behind a dejected pile of empty single-serving cardboard boxes.  After many mornings of being on the short end of the stick, I developed a taste for a surrogate to Fruit Loops.  I turned to the underrated (yet excellent) Cinnamon Toast Crunch, baked with tender loving care by those tirelessly loyal Cinnamon Toast Crunch bakers.

Eventually, being constantly denied the Fruit Loops and revolting against Toucan Sam, and I learned something: never trust anything in the mainstream.  I’ve followed this path my whole life, in choosing books, movies, food, and women (though sometimes that last one backfired).  As a rule of thumb, I always seek out the Cinnamon Toast Crunch alternative.

Fast forward to 2004, where I am reviewing actress Mischa Barton’s iTunes celebrity play list.  Included is Stellastarr’s “My Coco”, a blatant but blissful rip off of Big Country.  In what was definitely not a coincidence, the song was featured on the next episode of Barton’s television show, The O.C.  For the uninitiated, the show is a primetime melodrama about gorgeous trust fund teens that portrays the trials and tribulations inherent in enduring the existential dilemmas of the economic wasteland that is Orange County.  At last, a show about rich and beautiful white people with fake problems, the last frontier of underrepresented demographics.

The O.C’s popularity betrays a unique, but simple, business model for the music industry: you can promote indie bands on a teen soap—a commendable marketing plan.  Because of the series, musical acts such as Death Cab for Cutie, Spoon, Doves, Nada Surf, Jem, and Stellastarr are being introduced to a national audience.  Yet, how can one be sure if a band makes the show’s soundtrack due to their own merit or a backroom deal made between their record labels and Fox?

So, I am left asking whether I can trust The O.C. as a legitimate trendsetter for what constitutes a worthwhile band.  If music is in the mainstream, does it mean that it's been watered down for the lowest common denominator?  For the most part, The O.C. bands are of high quality and deserving of praise, but when the local indie band you support becomes big, can you trust them to retain the intangible characteristics that first made you love them in the first place?

Such a question reared it's head on April 9 at the State Theatre when Stellastarr performed with Editors, yet another O.C. alumnus.  There was uncertainty when I arrived to see Stellastarr performing first, since the bill portrayed them as the headliner.  Wading through a sea of hipsters, my fears of a letdown almost prevented me from enjoying my Stoli Vanilla and club soda.  Thankfully, Tegan and Sarah haircuts (bangs galore!) outnumbered faux-hawks by 4 to 1, so an air of indie-authenticity existed that night to mitigate my initial apprehension.

Hitting all of his David Byrne-copyrighted high notes, Shawn Christiansen and the Brooklyn quartet delivered as imagined in mp3 form.  They performed exactly as they exist inside my iPod.  Standouts like “Coco” and “Somewhere Across Forever” displayed the poppy liveliness so well captured on their first album, but with a little too much precision.  While Amanda Tannen (on bass and back up vocals) is scrumptious to look at, her chorus cues were too perfect.  The resulting performance was sometimes emotionless, where even giddy tracks like “Pulp Song” came across as mechanical—Christiansen even ditched the primal scream that ends the song.

Finishing their set with “Sweet Troubled Soul,” I was left with the same type of obligatory, lingering hunger found one hour after eating Chinese food.  Do I remain for the opening act after such a lackluster headliner?  What is the etiquette in this situation?  Do I leave a tip?

Fortunately for the audience (and myself), we benefited from the scheduling confusion.  Set free from the time restraints typically imposed on an opening act, the Editors outshined their more famous “headliners.”  The energy they served up even impressed a self-proclaimed Gang of Four fan standing next to me.  Not an easy feat.

Opening with the first track, “Lights,” Tom Smith (lead vocals) and company come across as a poor man’s Killers.  When Smith bemoans, “Oh, if the fortune favors the brave, I am as poor as they come,” one wonders if he shares a place at the bar commiserating with Mr. Brightside.  Despite the lamentation, the song erupted with daring bravado set to the punchy drumbeat of Ed Lay.  Like most of the Editors’ songs, the melancholy nature of the lyrics contrasts with the songs’ melodies and the vigor of the musicians.  In other words, the Editors fucking all-out rock.  A tinge of guilt wells up inside when I realize how much I danced to the beat of someone’s suffering.

Under multiple lights, Smith basked in a kaleidoscope of colors while performing at the keyboard on “Camera.”  The song rose to the level of romantic frustration Smith is seeking to convey but never seemed excessive.  “Camera” progressed to a fitting, subtle crescendo, allowing the audience to revel in the moment of the set-up—an act of patience few bands are willing to commit to.

In stereotypically polite British fashion, Smith apologized profusely between each song for the schedule flop, the price of gas, Kevin Federline, El Niño, and just overall having a great band.  This genteel demeanor was soon crushed by the ferociousness of “Fingers In The Factory.”  Smith gyrated on stage in spastic bursts, swinging his guitar around his neck as if indulging in some type of autoerotic asphyxiation.  I could not tell if he was performing the song or, like a mechanical bull, holding on for dear life.  The Gang of Four fan and I smiled at each other.

Finally, the pounding cadence of "Bullets" found Smith and the Editors giving a tight, focused performance that proves they possess a more nuanced sound beyond my initial impressions.  Smith’s repeating mantra, “You don’t need this disease” pulsated throughout the theater like a sonic strobe light.
There were rumblings at State Theatre that both acts, if not at least one, are “label” bands.  That is, in the grand tradition of the Monkees and N’Sync, record executives pooled together various individual, yet unmarketable alone, talents to form an all-star cabal.  Kind of like the Super Friends, but mediocre and without unitards.  Eyebrows were raised at the rather elaborate lighting system and the placement of an electric metronome so close to Stellastarr’s drummer.  (Additional reports from our spies revealed at least one Orlando-based Sony representative was present).

Please do not misinterpret me.  Neither of these bands are second-rate or derivative in any way.  And I do not mean to lift my nose up to the music that plays through the speakers of every Urban Outfitters store.  Sometimes, music is popular because it simply is that good, and not because it is forced upon the public by major corporate conglomerates.  This is a quandary that all artists, as well as their fans, face after being absorbed into the mainstream.  But, I wonder if our tastes are shaped by our own experiences, personalities, and preferences or by some corporate hack looking to steer the market toward his stock holdings?  I wonder if teenagers blindly rush into the indie music scene for love of the sound, or simply because The O.C. tells them do so?  And I wonder whether a culture of elitism is being cultivated to counter these deserving bands just because a majority of the public loves them.

But most importantly, I wonder if the Editors eat Fruit Loops for breakfast.