By Alison M. Rosen

CLUBBING
Needles & Pinheads

There were quite a few needles at Luxx on a recent Thursday—but not like that, you low-life. Like this: Tony the Neck, an affable creature whose neck wasn’t nearly as large as you’d hope given his name, was giving away free tattoos in one of Luxx’s many vinyl-riffic, metal-poled go-go booths. The club’s ad said, "Free Tatoos by Tony," which is not only misspelled but creepy. You know where else you can get free tattoos? Prison. Tattoos, like angioplasty and sushi, fall into that special category of things for which cheaper is not always better and sometimes dumber.

But the people want their free ink. They crave it. And you know how they crave it? In the form of a skull and crossbones, apparently. At least that’s what most of the people I talked to that night wanted.

Seriously, you have no idea how many times I had this conversation. Unless, of course, I was so drunk that I was having it repeatedly with the same person, which is possible but not probable, considering that I woke up alone in my own bed wearing proper sleeping attire and sans a small tattoo on my nether region that said Property of the U.S. Marine Corps.

"Have you guys gotten your free tattoos?" asked Jayson Green, singer of local rock/post-punk/hardcore act Panthers, from the stage, amid the buzzing whir of the tattoo pens. The last time I saw Green at Knitting Factory he was wearing a beige sportscoat and had brown hair; tonight he was wearing a black sportscoat and had dyed black hair. So you see, time marches on. He was as captivating as ever though, singing nostril-flaring diatribes over jagged, discordant guitars and propulsive drums while shaking his ass and looking all cute and cuddly despite himself. Which is not to say he doesn’t want to look cute and cuddly, because if he didn’t he’d most likely cover his person with cuddle-repellants like piercings and tattoos and spiky things.

"Boob, chest, boob, chest, boob," he sang at one point. Actually, I have no idea if that’s what he really sang, because the acoustics were not conducive, but it seems like something he might have sang, especially considering that I’m 53 percent sure I later heard him declare, "It doesn’t matter what I say, you just hear the same thing." Now, it should be noted that in my notes there’s a word-shaped doodle in between "say" and "you," so there might be another word in there, supposing this is what he even sang at all. But if he did sing "boob, chest, boob, chest, boob"—and really, why would he not have?—he surely was making some kind of statement on gender politics and patriarchy and sexism, because he is very much like that. He might be a riot grrrl. The liner notes to his band’s most recent album, Are You Down?? (Troubleman Unlimited), are pretty manifesto-like and reference all sorts of -isms and -osophies that in less able hands might induce narcolepsy. So it’s pretty awesome that he manages to be compelling despite the screeds.

"So, you all want to party?" he later asked the freshly-inked crowd. The thing is, I did, so I begged off to a bar down the street where the ink was already dry and the only buzz to be had was from alcohol. But, and this is important, some days have passed and my friend who that night was wincing in the go-go booth is still quite pleased with his skull and crossbones.