West Indian Archie, Jughead Ethiopique.
It has been a live week lived amongst the living and the bammity-bammity-bam as Maida Ives would say.
First on Saturday the snarking rabbit-punchers Heathen Shame (Rogers / Biggar / Greg Kelley) and Sightings hit Guile-style sonic booms, making me forget what other voices sounded like, and more specifically how bad the other band on the bill was.
Then Malkmus kills it Monday with the Jicks, or at least it sounded pretty murdered after eight Busch Lights. I like that in describing a multitude of Busch, it’s like one of them single plurals, where you can say eight Busch or eight Busches. It was something mirthful to finally see the old boy: he reminded me of Jon Barron a bit, both in appearance and in the way that he was knowledgable and warmly en garde, enjoying himself with a band just unattractive enough to be having fun, but not so hideous that the audience looks away. I suggested that he might in fact be the most genuinely funny rock star I’ve ever seen, but Westropp said it was just the crowd laughing while on a seventy-minute date with a hottie (at least in terms of musical prowess) who’s out of their league. “Dark Wave”, “I’ve Hardly Been”, “(Do Not Feed the) Oyster” and “Jo Jo’s Jacket” ranked among the evening’s deffest.
Then the other night went to the FNX New Music Poll because my girlfriend wanted me to. If this doesn’t seem like a good enough reason, you have to keep in mind that my girlfriend is extremely good looking and I’ve seen her naked. On the way back, she put her head on my shoulder and it made me feel like a man and stuff. It turned out to be the right idea anyway, as I saw four bands ranging from good to gangbusters to ghostbusters play def riddums for only ten semoleons. The Raveonettes, a group I would have assumed I could tolerate at best, are in fact great dorkus malorkus fun, despite being from Scandanewwavia. DENMARK IN THE CLUB AND THEY COVERED MY BOYFRIEND’S BACK, WOOF.
Autolux from Cali-Cali were better still in my opinion, lots of really good distortion and feedback and vocoder in a fashion that Kevin wouldn’t Shields himself from. I hate myself sometimes, like just now when I tried to make a Bloody Valentine pun. What can I say? I mean, “Sometimes” “What You Want” is “Only Shallow” if it’s punnery, am I right people? (*pause for crickets, wait for it*) Plus they have a female drummer who looks like a million people I know.
The Futureheads, or what I caught of them, were not nearly as sharp as they were at Paradise a few months back but could still strum while jigging, so I remain loyal, so much so that I accidentally ended up standing as frontest and centerest to the stage as it gets. I echo the internerd’s collective sentiment that their cover of “A Picture of Dorian Gray” should be leading the pack on their next album. “Hounds of Love” was a no-go though so we could go-go and book-ass to Avalon-Avalon. Never seen that place as crowded as it was for Dresden Dolls, who were widely perceived as the headliner of the whole thing (at which three clubs that are within a hundred yards of each other run good bills and you can come and go among the dozen or so acts). Odds and sods in the place included Sarah Litvin, Max Roseglass, Roger Poulin, and Hudson the Younger. Da Drez struck up the two-piece and cranked it to at least three and a quarter, with originals I like very much (“Backstabber, “Missed Me”) and covers of songs I like that much more (“War Pigs”, “Port of Amsterdam”). It was gothy. People died.