Bless your heart, Tim Harrington. Is there anything you won't do to make me smile? I was feeling down last night, wanting nothing more than to crawl under my bed and hide there forever, but your jolly gyrations were enough to bring me back from the precipice. Which is good, as there's not really enough space for a person under my futon.
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Before I'd even arrived at Liberty State Park, day two of the festival began for me in the form of a jacked fellow in a camo headband and possibly under the influence of PCP screaming "TOOL!" every five seconds on the train. "We're gonna see Tool! TOOL! Yeah baby! Woo!" "Indoor voices," I implored him. "I know it's exciting. We're all very excited." "TOOL!" he replied.
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Saturday night, Tortoise packed the cavernous Bell House with rock nerds eager for a taste of genre-straddling instrumentals. Is it jazz? Prog? Krautrock? Techno? Ambient? A qualified yes to all, but it's mainly just Tortoise.
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Last night, Swedish pop-rockers the Sounds played a "secret" show at Santos Party House to hype their forthcoming Crossing the Rubicon to a crowd of sweaty, already hyped fans.
"Are you guys happy? Cause I hope you're fucking happy now, bitch."
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Jelly NYC and Topshop put on a show at the Shank for the college kids Saturday featuring all the bands those college kids love. While it would be easy to hate on something like this as exploitation of a sincere local music scene for branding purposes, most bands on the bill had already crossed over to national indie rockstardom already, and I can deal with having to look at an ad through the darkness if it spells an awesome free rock show. Also, bands seem to like it when they get paid. Perhaps learning from past mistakes, Jelly didn't give out too many tickets, keeping the venue comfortably at or below capacity all night.
Crash Diet Crew and Muggabears opened up. I arrived in time for These Are Powers, who weathered technical difficulties to deliver yet another great set of their sharp, grindy, dubstep-y, tribal-future ghost punk. Each time I see them do songs off All Aboard Future, my love for it grows exponentially. Those sure are some awesome powers they've got.
Next up, Wavves played consonant-heavy garage rock with an enthusiasm far outstripping the times I'd caught them at SXSW. The dirty, windowless warehouse space and crowd of hyped up kids put them comfortably in their element. Up until that point, I'd struggled to understand why they blew up so hard. Seems arbitrary that this competent garage rock band should make it over that one, no? The boys proved their worth, though, pounding out song after joyfully messy song until everyone was sweating balls from jumping and shoving.
Crystal Stilts kept the energy up with post punk that was more laid back but no less danceable. Drummer Frankie Rose kept a driven pace even as the sweat glistened on her face, and singer Brad Hargett looked as though he might pass out at any second (doesn't he always?) as he stumbled around the stage eyes half closed, mumbling melodies in his characteristically anesthetized way.
I wanted to stay and catch the dance party if for no other reason than that the DJ's name was "Blorr", but a failed experiment in high heels (my first and last time wearing such a thing; Mazel tov! I'm a woman now) left me crippled after the Shank ate the pair of backup slip-ons I'd brought. I hobbled outside to catch a cab, resolving to wear more appropriate footwear next time such that I might make up for all the good dancing I'd missed.
Photo by Jonny Leather
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.
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