Wild Yaks and company fleshed out an eclectic lineup at Glasslands last night. I arrived in time for the joke(?) rap group Das Racist, which consisted of two guys in Cosby sweaters sometimes rapping, sometimes singing along to the songs they've sampled, and other times just saying "rap rap rap" while the Will Smith vehicle Hitch played in the background. The singalong was most blatant when they played the Butthole Surfers' "Pepper," but nobody seemed to mind; the crowd's excitement exceeded all reasonable expectations for 11:30pm on a Tuesday.
People don't give a fuck about rap/DJ cred if you're playing songs they like, especially when there are elements of nostalgia involved. "1990 something," they rapped, "and the party is jumping." It was like Girl Talk, if Girl Talk were a joke. I suspect it's only a matter of time before someone at The New Yorker tries to posit lines like "when I say call, you say response" as some sort of semiotic deconstruction of the conventional elements of hip hop, and I'd like to call that person out in advance if possible. Das Racist is to be taken with a smirk on one's face and both hands in the air.
Headliner Wild Yaks changed the energy in the room with absurd yet heartfelt lines like "I don't understand how I could hurt so bad and not be dead." Their messy, lo-fi guitars and emotional outbursts reminded me of contemporaries Titus Andronicus or further back, of Desapericidos. Squiggly lead guitar, shouted group choruses and a generally feverish tempo maintained a good times vibe. They occasionally slid into an old blues/Americana sound, with Rob Brynn's full, throaty voice lending a touch of Waittsian class. Also notable was Brynn's mumbled between song banter in which he told cute little stories that sort of trailed off at the end, like how he'd eaten mushrooms in Inwood park earlier that day and it was...
If Wild Yaks is this much fun playing on a strange night of the week to a dwindling crowd, they must dominate a real party.
