(Note: Every so often, we run short of rational ideas and dip into DCQ’s archives. The bulk of this post, intended to remind our East Coast followers that the specter of the eternal winter is so much peacenik propaganda, originally ran on June 20, 2009.)
Puerto Rican flags and bandanas were flying off the shelves in Los Sures and Spanish Harlem and on D-Block over the last few weeks. On recent weekend days, you couldn’t round the block without catching Big Pun blaring from a passing SUV. The PR trinket hawkers crowded out the Halal cart guys and the Mexican mango stands, pushing them off the corners with sprawling setups dripping red, white and blue. Then, finally, Sunday came: The one day of the year when browns outnumbered whites on 5th Ave. With the JAPs and WASPs retreating to their Hamptons cottages, the Upper East Side belonged to the Boriqueños.
Def Jam’s street soldiers came out:
As did the hooptie crews:
And the merengue fellas, with the requisite porcine drummer man:
Then there was this guy; photos don’t do it justice, but as you’ll pick up, the owner’s clearly a fan of vintage Pacino:
Backside detail: so excessive, it just might be genius. Or a ludicrous waste of money — jury’s still out:
Chicken trike man rocked a picture of his chicken trike ON his chicken trike! A proud fan of fowl:
Jewish Hipster or Hip Jewster? Hewish Jipster? (Did we manage to offend TWO long-persecuted ethnic groups with the latter? Awesome.):
Watch out, everyone — Sad Red may be actively channeling Philip Glass rocking out to Nick Drake on the Brooklyn band’s latest record, Elder. Give ‘em some space.
That may seem like a simplistic aural comparison, but it’s an accurate one. Besides, it’s not like such a course of action would necessarily be a bad thing. (And frankly, who wouldn’t want to watch that? Especially if there’s a musical exorcism involved.)
But make no mistake, Sad Red’s influences aren’t limited to one arena or genre (and you’re right if you’re thinking that a Glass/Drake one-two punch is a pretty heavyhanded move). Rather, they’re all over the map. Elder isn’t shoegazer at all, but fans of the genre are likely to enjoy this album (also, just a hunch, but Alice in Chains fans may be besides themselves).
Minimalism can be a lazy label, but not when applied correctly. Sad Red’s latest effort is moody and dark, yes, but it’s also evocative. Not a lot of bands can say that. The genre got its sea legs with bands such as Stars With Fleas and saw its torch carried on — in part, and in a big way — by groups like Grizzly Bear.
As for breakthrough potential, Elder’s album-closer, “Glass,” easily lends itself to radio play (but on a radio station that’s plugged in enough to truly “get it”), while “The Garden and the Lemon Tree” (stream below) successfully embodies the airy nostalgia of the childhood memories described therein. In short, the good gospel of Sad Red possesses the basic qualities it needs to spread further — perhaps beginning tonight at Brooklyn’s Union Hall, where the band celebrates the record’s street release with fellow locals Hungry Hands and Dusty Brown.
Flattery, it’s been said, will get you everywhere. And if — to conjure up another adage — imitation is truly the sincerest form of flattery, Sons and Heirs are geared up to, well, go everywhere.
The group, which has set out to recreate the experience of seeing the The Smiths play in their ’80s heyday, bills themselves as a “tribute band” as opposed to a cover band. One would be forgiven for not initially knowing the difference, but after seeing Sons and Heirs take the stage, it’d immediately become clear. Within their tribute act, which stopped by the Bell House in Brooklyn on Saturday night, no detail is spared. How close to reality did they really come? Lead singer Ronnissey, who plays the role of goth’s fearless leader Morrissey, throws gladiolas into the crowd from his perch onstage, just like Moz himself used to. The garb worn onstage is down-to-minutiae period costumery. But if you’re still not yet convinced, try this on for size — former Smiths bassist Andy Rourke, DJ’ing on the bill for the night, even came onstage to join the band for a song (much to the utter shock and delight of the crowd). Not many tribute acts of any ilk can claim the blessing (or involvement) of actual members.
If it’s not yet apparent, seeing Sons and Heirs play is watching pure theater — good theater. Certainly, there are many impressionists and/or impersonators in the rock world, but if you’re going to stand out to Smiths fans — some of the most rabid devotees on the planet — you had better be good. Thankfully, Sons and Heirs don’t have a problem in this department. If New York audiences get the occasional bad rap of being passionless, you’d never know it from the crowd response to the band. From the constant dancing and lyric-shouting going on, you would have been forgiven for confusing the Bell House with a particularly raucous karaoke bar.
In an era where commentary on art is itself art, the Sons and Heirs truly manage to epitomize the concept.
Sons and Heirs throw down like it’s 1985 (above) before original Smiths bassist Andy Rourke joins the tributeers onstage (below).
(Note: This post originally ran on March 4, 2009. Yes, another one from the vault. Don’t get used to it.)
I just returned home from a screening of the documentary Flustern & SCHREIEN (Whisper & SHOUT) at the Hammer Museum in Westwood. First of all, accolades to the Hammer for consistently providing great, FREE programming to the public. Second, this film totally rules. Released in 1988, it follows several East German bands and their adoring fans as they tour the country. What struck me most, aside from the fabulous German New Wave and punk soundtrack, were the attitudes the featured young people displayed. All of them had marvelously positive outlooks on their lives and what they wanted to achieve, despite the fact that they were already tied down to government-assigned jobs (e.g., chimney-sweep) in a completely isolated land. It was truly amazing to juxtapose their words against the fact that the wall came down only a year later.
The bands themselves (Silly, Feeling B, Chicoree, Sandow, and more) were required to apply for government-issued certifications to play concerts. According to the gent who introduced the film, the bands would have to submit lyrics and perform for the state in order to receive clearance to play a show. Logically, these groups grew to master the use of poetic and subversive language that relayed their rebellious message to their audiences while appeasing the state.
Overall, a must-see — for the music, for the amazing punk attitude of all the kids featured, and for the radical threads rocked by all.
P. Diddy: “Yeah, SK, down at the BET studios. I was making it rain fake paper when it flew into the crowd. We put the shit on lockdown and patted everyone down, but shit was gone. One a those kids in the audience took it, no doubt. LOL.”
“Ya mon, Me sister, me own flesh-an-blood, mailed it to me, but it never come. She even take out insurance on deh package!”
“Oh yeah? So you cool then, huh? How much you covered for?”
“500.”
“500 grand?”
“No. $500.”
“Oh.”
“Ya mon.”
(silence)
“But after, me stahted thinkin’…me thinkin’ ‘twas the devil made me buy dat necklace. The devil lyin’ down to sleep een deh 64 different colors.”
“Yeah?”
“Ya.”
(silence)
“And what’s more, I was thinkin’ of gettin’ rid of it anyhow. Too twinkly. An’ Walgreens comin’ out with a 112-crayon set soon as well, so me considerin’ an upgrade.”
“Wait, you modeled the thing after the generic crayon set? You ain’t heard of Crayola?!”
“What you mean, ‘Crayola’? That like Walgreens for poor people?”
“Never mind. Well yo, I appreciate you calling me up. Holla at me next time you do Madison Square.”
“Ya KNOW I will, Puff.”
“Don’t call me Puff.”
“Ah, right, Diddy, me mistake…you got a lot a names to remembah, ya know!?”
“Haha, yeah, you right. I got more names than you got crayons. LOL.”
“Not funny, mon.”
“You know I’m playin. LOL.”
“Why you keep saying ‘LOL’? It don’t mean nothing ‘less you typin’ it. And even in that context it’s basically devoid of value — it’s essentially a social tick with little to no substantive meaning. A filler word, as they say, akin to ‘well’ or ‘y’know.’”
Dunce Cap stopped by Highline Ballroom Sunday night as Outernational and friends celebrated the release of the band’s spanking-new EP, the Tom Morello-produced Eyes on Fire. Notes fom the frontline:
* Lest it seem as though nothing could top first opener R-tronika singing the chorus “I am a hipster” while watching assorted hipsters in the audience dance their asses off (meta? Maybe), wait and behold the power of second act Japanther.
* Donning a homemade mask, Japanther drummer/singer Ian Vanek conjured up a tattooed Burt Ward. (Substitute, of course, the “holy cow, Batman”s with some feedback and garage rock.) ‘Course, the Boy Wonder was concerned with the crimefightin’, while Japanther is more intent on throwing off governmental shackles entirely (e.g., at one point instructing President Obama to “go fuck himself”). Then, more instruction: “We’d be as happy playing in front of three people at your house. Make your shit small and independent.” And — anarchy-wise, at least — they practice what they preach: By the end of the set, the drum kit was thrown across the stage.
* You’d be forgiven for thinking Outernational was ready to serve up some Kid Rock — Southern fringed shirt and red leather pants on the frontman will do that — but their music and politics couldn’t be farther apart from those of the greasy-haired, tank-top-loving rocker. Maybe if Kid Rock was well-produced and progressive, he could compete with Outernational. The group’s fan base is rabid (and skews young — the band made a point of giving props to Highline for being one of the few venues in town to host an all-ages show), and tends to show up wearing red armbands along with the rest of the band. And the group treats its fans in kind, bringing one up for a guitar jam (one of the best moments of the evening) and letting more climb onstage to get their vogue on during the last song.
* Verdict: no better way to end the weekend than being in the audience for such an epic show. Will learn the good gospel of earplugs next time? Affirmative.
Thoreau once wrote, “most men lead lives of quiet desperation.” The sentiment couldn’t be truer than within The Mountain Goats frontman John Darnielle’s songs, whose characters seem to have stepped straight out of the pages of a particularly devastating Raymond Carver story. But The Mountain Goats — which consist of founder Darnielle and a backing band — brought much more than run-of-the-mill literary depression on Tuesday night at Manhattan’s Webster Hall.
How then, do they (he) manage to strike such a universal chord with his stories (a more apt description than mere “songs”)? To the uninitiated, watching this (by all accounts, completely joyous) man perform songs of anguish while hopping around onstage in his socks might seem a rather striking — if not downright strange — juxtaposition. But it works, and Darnielle, within his songs, manages to get way down in the depths of his followers’ psyches, into areas they probably hadn’t explored in years. Who hasn’t dealt with a situation as a child that’s stuck with you until adulthood, or endured the end of a relationship you thought you’d never truly get over? Darnielle knows that you have, and paints characters that are frozen in time, unable to move past it. They suffer, if you will, so you don’t have to.
If that seems like a creeping religious metaphor, it’s no accident. Much of Darnielle’s music uses religion — especially Christianity — as a backdrop, and consequently the theme of redemption is an easy read. (The Goats’ latest album, The Life of the World To Come, is based entirely on verses from the Bible.) Still, the label-prone don’t refer the Goats’ disciples as members of the Church of John Darnielle for nothing: There is a very basic — yet not at all primitive — thread that runs through nearly everything he writes. But if those songs were dismissed as being solely about religion, then there’d be a big piece of the puzzle missing: Darnielle is onstage acting out the lives of the people about whom he sings — the highs, the lows, the sometimes near-hysterics — and he’s frequently playing the part of the person laughing in the face of dashed hopes. Sometimes that character just happens to be his former self, set to song, and he makes the autobiographical element clear when it’s there.
But let’s be clear about The Mountain Goats’ live presence, lest it be argued that their shows are purely about Darnielle’s theatrics and pageantry: The transition from full, raucous band with pyrotechnic-esque light effects to stripped-down, man-and-his-guitar mode was seamless enough that the audience barely noticed the change — the music itself was what transfixed the already absorbed (and for all accounts, pretty dazzled) audience.
Finally closing the set with full band back on stage, Darnielle launched into crowd favorite “This Year,” a song featuring the famous chorus “I will make it through this year if it kills me.” Maybe Thoreau didn’t quite have it right — looks like defiance can kick quiet desperation’s ass any day.
(Note: This post originally ran on February 19, 2009.)
Let the hating begin: We think Lily Allen’s new album is good. Not Stranger than Fiction or Southernunderground good, but hooky pop music good. A relative good. These days, when the artist is a passably attractive 23-year-old progeny of celebrities who’s signed to a major label, you expect an Ashlee Simpson, a Rihanna…a rhinestone bikini filled with an olive-hued body of some class and topped with a workable face; smother the voice in vocoder, and you’re good to go. Allen’s image, while quite possibly a calculated label construct, is refreshingly flawed — she looks like she’s done some damage on the cookie dough ice cream recently, and admits to not giving a shit about it.
It’s Not You, It’s Me is at its essence formulaic, melodramatic pop, but it’s done right and avoids monotony — synth-heavy production (“Everyone’s At It”) alternates with twangy rockabilly-infused joints (upcoming single “Not Fair”). What sets the album apart, though, is Allen’s willingness to address an array of topics overwhelmingly shunned by her mainstream diva contemporaries: Cocaine abuse (“Now I’m not trying to say that I’m smelling of roses/But when will tire of putting shit up our noses”), God (“Do you think his favorite type of human is Caucasian?/Do you reckon he’s ever been done for tax evasion?”), sexist double standards applied to nearing-30 women (“It’s sad but it’s true how society says her life is already over/There’s nothing to do and nothing to say”), familial reconciliation (“This is not just a song; I intend to put these words into action/I hope that it sums up the way that I feel to your satisfaction”) and emotionless sex (“Now I know you feel betrayed, but it’s been weeks since I got laid”).
I mean, she’s got a track about Dubya (originally written about the white supremacist British National Party) entitled “Fuck You.” Can you picture Christina Aguilera standing up in her Fanta-hued skinsuit and waxing poetic on, say, immigration policy? Or trumpeting her inability to get dick? OK, bad example.
Contrast that with one of the more unfortunate songs to come out of BigLabel hip-hop in recent (or distant) memory: T.I.’s “Swing Ya Rag.” Never known for his lyrical intricacy or topical poignancy, Bankhead’s finest has dropped a string of certified trunkthumpers over the last couple years, and he’s certainly got a few on Paper Trail: “Ready for Whatever,” “What Up, What’s Haapnin’,” “Dead and Gone,” to wit. Five or six other cuts, ranging in quality from “ech” to “blow,” have already become radio hits.
Swizz Beatz-produced “Swing Ya Rag,” however, tops all: The hook, which accounts for around half of the song’s vocals, answers the much-anticipated question of “How exactly does T.I dance when he goes to the club?” Well, shocker!: He DOESN’T!!!! No, T.I. “don’t dance, no way.” Of course not! I mean, who dances anymore these days, really?! Squares only, I say. Stay sharp. Instead, the rapper “just take my Louis rag out and wave it ‘round in the air, take my Gucci rag out and wave it ‘round in the air.” All in all, T.I. repeats the rag-waving eight times. Then he goes home and reads old Silver Surfers while eating grape gummy bears.
With 11 Gucci and 10 Vuitton references (and a Patron thrown in for good measure, of course) packed into the 3:20 song, dude averages a product placement every nine seconds. Major loot, right? Thing is, nobody thought to actually talk to the companies about, you know, the whole thing, and turns out they weren’t all that thrilled. Says T.I. about a video he made for the song: “We did it, and it came out hot, (but) Louis and Gucci started trippin’ about it. They were saying we were infringing, in one way or another. They weren’t happy about it. They didn’t want it to come out. But it’s hot, though…” While the fashion companies were probably totally sold after he reiterated that “it’s hot” — just in case they were wondering — MTV refused to play the video for fear of getting its ass sued off.
So, then: Rapper sets, to our knowledge, a record for blatancy and frequency of product placement in a song, proceeds to lose money for doing so. Brilliant, T.I., brilliant.
Having said all that, we’re now on revolution #8 of It’s Not You, It’s Me, and Allen’s, sadly, starting to annoy us. A cute British accent and the cojones to discuss fellatio and abandonment issues can apparently take a pop star only so far.
T.I.: You’re not getting paid for this, either. “Esteban the Photog from the Vuitton Ad Department” is actually “Phil the Insurance Salesman from Syracuse.” Please go home already.
In case you didn’t quite know what you were in for with Drivin’ N Cryin, they made it clear when they opened their Saturday night set at the Highline Ballroom with a shout-out to their Detroit musical brethren — The Stooges, Alice Cooper, MC5 — that it’s rock that’s in their roots, twangy as they may sound. The inimitable Motor City 5 were conjured up repeatedly during the Atlanta rockers’ set, with a reference to the MC5 song “This American Ruse” in their opener “Detroit City,” along with the constant addressing of the audience as “my brothers and sisters,” the longtime cry of late MC5 frontman Rob Tyner.
Coming from Atlanta, it’d be forgivable to assume solely from the band’s looks that you’re in for some Asleep at the Wheel or Blues Traveler, or maybe even a shade of The Georgia Satellites. Vocally, you may not be far off on the latter prediction — lead singer Kevin Kinney isn’t afraid of a little old-fashioned twang — but largely, DNC has more in common with their rock compadres than with anyone else.
True, they can be a little jingoistic: In explaining the story behind one of their new songs, “The Great American Bubble Factory,” Kinney opens by telling a tale of seeing bubbles made in China in a local store and ends the tune with “if you can make it here, why don’t you make it here?” Okay, so the band is ostensibly against international trade and/or outsourcing. Fine, gotcha. (They further broadcast the “U-S-A” theme with repeated “support your troops” pleadings throughout the evening.) But just when you think you’ve pinned down the fellas’ politics, they lament not being able to hear The (once-controversial and still-blacklisted, due to repeated anti-Bush comments) Dixie Chicks on country radio. Truly a mystery wrapped in an enigma.
But either way, DNC make sure they don’t let things get too heavy, sending up Bay City Rollers by leading the audience in a “S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y” chant and ending the evening with a tune imagining Jesus as a “Whiskey River”-loving Willie Nelson fan.
You’d be forgiven if you didn’t quite believe that DNC opening act the Madison Square Gardeners are New Yorkers. But indigenous rockers they are (and young enough to be successors to the Old 97s’ legacy, to boot). In addition to tight songwriting, the band features playing that’s louder live than that of many metal bands. While delivery hinges a tad on Rhett Miller, the songwriting is closer to a cousin of early Tom Petty. If modern country music as a genre knew what was good for it, it would sound like this — not Toby Keith. Remember that, modern country radio? When you featured real talent rather than reactionary shit and Jessica Simpson in short shorts? It is possible to love the genre, even if the MSG are technically closer to being filed under “Americana” in the record store for all official purposes. Then again, Fountains of Wayne would probably be more likely to write a song like “My Ex-Girlfriend Is a Bad Lesbian on Drugs,” so there really is something here for everyone, even if you don’t fancy yourself a fan of the country genre. Eat your heart out, Toby Keith.
Dunce Cap Quarterly caught up with emerging soul artist Mayer Hawthorne backstage after his raucous set at Williamsburg’s Brooklyn Bowl last month. Two days prior, he and backing band The County had crashed the same venue to help The Roots close out their show immediately after playing to a full house at the new NYC Knitting Factory.
Lacking any sort of identifying credentials at the time, DCQ didn’t exactly get the Rolling Stone treatment: Hawthorne’s manager, the appropriately-monikered Big Worm, ushered us into some sort of murky boiler room, where he informed us that we had “two minutes” with the man (and he did, in fact, mean “two minutes,” looming over us, finger on watch). The resulting interview was not Bangs-worthy.
Hawthorne himself was gracious enough, a thoughtful crate-digger who had clearly been run through the media ringer during his first national tour with the project (he started out as hip-hop DJ Haircut). He took exception, however, at the suggestion that he was a retro artist — a legitimate gripe, though a tad ironic considering his Brooklyn Bowl set was a throwback, almost to the word, of the set he performed at the Knitting Factory 48 hours earlier.
Without further ado, then, our talk with Mayer Hawthorne:
DCQ: We’ve been following Stones Throw (Hawthorne’s record label) for a while. How did this happen? Give us the back story.
MH: I grew up in Ann Arbor, just outside of Detroit, and moved to Los Angeles about three years ago to pursue a career in hip-hop…and ended up becoming a doo-wop singer.
DCQ: How did growing up in the Detroit area influence you in terms of your music?
MH: Man, it had a huge impact on my musical tastes, you know, and just who I became as a person. It’s a hard-working, blue-collar community out there, and it instills a great work ethic and, you know, obviously there’s an enormous musical history out there that we take a great deal of pride in — from Motown to electronic music to Iggy Pop.
DCQ: Right. So you met Stones Throw founder Peanut Butter Wolf out in LA at a party or something, right? How did this all go down?
MH: I got introduced to him at a party by a mutual friend and I sent him some tracks, and he wrote me back like a month later and said, “Hey, these tracks are dope, but what the hell is this shit?!” And I said, “Well, (they’re) my tracks! And he said “Whaddya means (they’re) your tracks? It’s like an old record that you found?” And I said “No, these are my tracks — like I wrote them and played them and recorded them and played ‘em and sang ‘em…”
DCQ: He just couldn’t believe a white guy from Detroit came up with it, huh?
MH: He just couldn’t believe it, but as soon as he believed it, it was on and crackin’.
DCQ: Any collaborations with Stones Throw artists coming up?
MH: Yeah, I just did a cover of a James Pants song, and he covered one of my songs, and I’m getting ready to do a song with Dãm-Funk, and I think I’m gonna get a remix from Dãm.
DCQ: Who do you see as your contemporaries in the genre? I mean, obviously you’re a throwback…but who would you like to be compared with right now?
MH: First of all…I’m not a throwback artist. I’m a new artist (who) is living in 2010 and making new music for a new generation. It’s heavily inspired by classic soul and Motown, but it’s new music, and it’s also very hip-hop influenced (in that), you know, there’s just as much J Dilla in there as is Holland-Dozier-Holland. And, you know, as far as artists that I’m feeling right now, it’s mostly non-soul artists — like there’s a Norwegian singer-songwriter named Hanne Hukkelberg that I love right now. I really liked the Santogold album. Lykke Li. Uh, what else…and I listen to a lot of stuff like The Smashing Pumpkins and The Police and Steel Pulse.
DCQ: Gotcha. Well hey, thanks for your time, and best of luck in the future.
If you happened to miss the Vic Chesnutt/Clare and the Reasons show at the Music Hall of Williamsburg last week, you’ll probably want to consider braving the hipster battleground more often.
Now firstly: It’s true, Clare and the Reasons has probably gotten the word “ethereal” in their live reviews more times than they care to count, but hey, if the shoe fits, you gotta wear it, right? Right. But hold that thought for a second. Is that a washboard I spy? Okay, sure, makes sense — after all, gotta cover all the bases. And every band playing in Brooklyn these days has to meet their one-washboard quota (see: Buttermilk’s monthly CashHank tribute). And just in case you get bored, there’s a kazoo involved too. So much to soak in. For short attention spans (and let’s be honest, who doesn’t have one these days?), this is possibly paradise.
There’s more though — vocally, Clare’s voice is the vocal equivalent of a theremin, warbling like the soundtrack to a silent film. It easily fits in with everything the band tackles, including a cover of Phil Collins’ “That’s All,” which is complete with a tuba. Beat that.
Vic Chesnutt is a worthy match, however, even though his sound is light years away from the Reasons. Chesnutt is a perfect storm, akin to a slightly angrier Tom Waits, but one backed with full orchestration. (And as a side note, the man is an immensely talented songwriter, so kindly don’t confuse him with ’80s country crooner Mark Chesnutt.)
It’s important to note that Vic is not waiting for anyone. He’s going to take his sweet time languishing in his songs, and he doesn’t care if you’re along for the ride. And that’s a good thing—nothing is compromised, but everything is received by the audience in full. The man is here to tell stories (“Chinaberry Tree” was especially spot-on storytelling) and he hopes you’re there, but no biggie if you’re not. He’s cool with that. Kind of like an uncle who’s seen it all.
Chesnutt has proven that he can play all kinds of sets — he opened for Jonathan Richman at Bowery Ballroom earlier this year and played a very different, almost slyly kooky set in that show. But mirth mostly wasn’t in the cards for the set he gave the Music Hall — and it still worked seamlessly. The strings made it haunting, and the all-seated performance (Vic uses a wheelchair, but the rest of the musicians stayed seated as well) brought about a purposefully dark set that contained little goofing around — other than the occasional wry aside — but still managed to bear no expense at the overall energy of the show. Funny how talented musicians like Chesnutt can pull that off.
This whole CMJ madness is apparently a big deal, so last night we said “Hey, let’s go watch a musical concert and see what all the hype is about.” Stars aligned, and the Space Formerly Known as Supreme Trading (on North 8th near Roebling in the ‘Burg) hosted some acts we like front-back-and-side-to-side: Fool’s Gold, the label run by Chromeo lil’ bro and Kanye tour deejay A-Trak, hosted a showcase with a bunch of their Studio B regulars. Meanwhile, a monster billing of bands played a six-hour show in the bigger back room. We came for Home Video (think Radiohead but not, y’know, Radiohead) and Tigercity (Minus the Bear/Junior Boys/Napoleon Dynamite). We missed them both due to bad planning and the fact that our ears fell off during a set by Edmonton’s Shout Out Out Out Out (sic).
We don’t know what happened or who they sound like. All we remember is that there were two synchronized drummers with coordinated drumstick flair and at least four guitars, five keyboards, two samplers, and a couple extra guys jumping around onstage just in case. (Side note: One of the drummers bore a striking resemblance to Thomas Jane’s unrealistic son character on Hung.) The band transformed a spread-out, ho-hum crowd awaiting the headliners into a heaving mass of sweaty humanity smashed together in front of the stage.
Catch Shout Out Out Out Out tonight at Webster Hall (11:30pm) and/or Merc Lounge (2am), and probably all kinds of other places around town over the next week. Even money says they’re opening for Ghostland Observatory by next summer.
