...is what I heard a guy say at one of the CMJ shows I went to this week. And, you know, sure -- the publications and record labels that organize all the showcases do dopey, corporate things like create "dossiers" of bands, organized by supposed genre. But I do the same thing in Google Docs as I'm planning which things to go to, optimizing my travel time between venues and sampling the pool of artists using an advanced heuristic based on how punk the band's name is. Truly, it is the only way to survive musical Hell Week. The festival started on Tuesday, I think, but I'd spent that night with the decidedly non-underground, non-emerging-new-act Gwar, so Wednesday was the first night of CMJ for me. I started at Spike Hill, where I wanted to see Fast Years. They played lo-fi, melodic garage-punk, and all the dudes looked like different Lord of the Rings characters. But they had the misfortune of playing an early bill, so the joint was pretty empty. I was surprised to see a familiar face in Ace Reporter, band that came on next -- it's fronted by Chris Snyder, bandmate of my friend Previn in the lost and lamented The States.
Nina met me outside and we jogged over to Trash Bar to see her friend and former colleague June's band, Vagina Panther, play a set. They're always fun and since the band is peopled with professional designers the swag is always cool. This year their goodie bags included some new stickers and a copy of the LP that corresponds to my beloved "titty" poster that we picked up at a show of theirs a few years back. We spent a few minutes talking to some other old SEED Magazine types, and then we were off again! Our next stop was Cake Shop, where we were hoping to see Punks On Mars. We got there late but were in luck -- there'd been a re-ordering of the set times, and they were going on right when we arrived. I'd been drawn to them because of their name. I liked the obliqueness of it; was it supposed to evoke something funny? Something sinister? The actual aesthetic of the band was endearingly dorky, like if Max Fischer from Rushmore had a punk rock band (shouldn't he have?) in the 50's. And they've got an expertly tuned sound: Elastic keyboard and guitar, stylized vocals that call to mind Television or early Blondie.
We bailed on Cake Shop after their set because I was anxious to check out what was going on next door in the back room of Pianos. Looking at the front room / bar, you'd never guess that there was a hipster convention in progress; that place is always slammed with meatheads and Neil Strauss types. Such is Pianos. But we knew we were iin the right place when we noticed with some surprise that our musical -- and, to be honest, non-musical -- crush Shilpa Ray was taking tickets at the entrance to the back room. We considered signaling our recognition but decided that would be creepy. Black Light Dinner Party were setting up as we got there. They were alright, although they weren't my kind of thing: electro-clash? Not sure. But it was more keyboard than I wanted, singing a bit too polished. And they'd loaded the room with friends, which, I'm not gonna lie, is creepy when it's not my band and the venue's not in Bushwick. Devin (née Devin Therriault) was the act I wanted to see. He fronts an eponymous band and looks like a punk He-Man or maybe like a more together version of Jon Voight's character in Midnight Cowboy. As his dudes were setting up, this fat Hell's Angel type jumped on stage to do an impromptu introduction. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said. "This band is the eighth wonder of the world! They will drink any shot you buy them." They pounded out a terrific, jangly guitar-punk set. Their drummer was monstrously fast and precise, but it's obvious why the band's named after its lead singer. He's got terrific stage presence, bopping up and down the stage, yelping and going "watch this" with his face. As promised, the band drank one shot, purchased by their M.C.
Whew!
On Thursday night I took the L out to Grand Ave. to go to The Paper Box, which is literally across the street from the Little Venue That Could, Shea Stadium. Bel Argosy had been booked to play at the Box a few months ago -- we'd had to cancel, as we so often do these days -- and I'd remained curious about what the joint was like inside, because it looks like an East Williamsburg speakeasy, or, I don't know, a gun store from the outside. Turns out it's neither -- it's actually three different things. The stage area is low-tech and industrial, pipes overhead and plenty of exposed brick, but the bar a few feet away is an upscale dealie, all white-frosted glass shelves of fancy booze; bar, bartenders, and bottles lit from below like props in a Grey Goose ad. And then there's a little lounge area that you get to through an accordian-folded hallway (which somehow incorporates a taco stand) that looks like the backstage room of high school theater or, actually, like the lobby of the original Manhattan Knitting Factory. Plastiq Passion was setting up as I got there. They're a four-girl ensemble that calls to mind The Shondes in their visual aesthetic: Suspenders and pompadours are involved. And like The Shondes their songs inherit from a number of loosely related musical genres. There was some riot grrl punk in there, some Gypsy Rose Lee, too. They played a luxurious set (by CMJ standards) that included several audience requests. Their EPK describes their drummer as an "animal," and it's not wrong. She was great; she was all arms.
In between sets I poked my head in at the taco window and bought a couple of vegetarian tacos. They weren't bad! They were even a little spicy. Bikini Carwash was up next -- they were the act I'd come there to see, three dudes and a lady who looked like Tank Girl-era Lori Petty. Their songs were perfectly serviceable if a little too polished and too dependent on newschool punk gimmicks; they wore their influences on their sleeves. I was trying to put my finger on exactly which band they were trying to be when they busted out with an early-in-the-set cover of Beat Your Heart Out. Oh, I thought. Well, there you go. But 'Carwash doesn't have the darkness or depth of Brody & Co. Worse, they had a substantial contingent of dwarfy little male fans in the audience who were apparently "regulars" -- the lead singer seemed to recognize them and dropped down into the crowd to cuddle them. So I think I liked them, but they were too eager to please. (The bikini made an appearance, although not the carwash.)
After they were done, I raced over to Metropolitan Ave. to meet Nina and Evan at The Knitting Factory for the Sub Pop showcase. Evan was there to see Metz; Nina'd liked what she'd heard from King Tuff. The show was totally sold out, but the venue was doing a thing where they'd sell a few more tickets every time someone'd leave. So Nina and Evan had copped entry that way, and when I showed up they sort of snuck me around the barricades and into the little box office cubicle right as some tickets were getting freed up. Sorry, (fellow) hipsters! The main room was insanely packed, like, shoulder-to-shoulder not-gonna-budge level. We squeezed in just in time to see Metz setting up. Their set started in the dark, and when the lights came on they were dim and focused like flashlights, giving the band a kind of ghoulish caste. Man was I glad I'd put in earplugs -- Metz are fucking loud. But they're also really, really good: Super tight, with perfect sound on every instrument. They'd turned the sustain way, way up for the guitar; fuzzed out the bass like crazy; and the drums had this throbbing, rubbery quality. The lead singer was a total beast on the mic, although he and the bass player looked and were dressed like total poindexters on the bus to a chess tourney. Who invented the Jekyll-and-Hyde nerd-goes-ballistic thing in punk rock? It's pretty effective. Metz were dope.
King Tuff came on next. There's four dudes in the band, but they're rocking enough hipster-scumbag accessories for, like, a small orchestra; multiples of: Basketball jerseys, baseball caps, wifebeaters, gold chains, handlebar mustaches, big scruffy beards, fiveheads, exposed chest hair. Which is not to say they werent good -- they were good, although they were orders of magnitude more chilled-out than their opener. 'Tuff plays punchy, honky-tonk rock songs, maybe a little like Dan Pujol, whom I'd seen on the same stage a couple of years ago. They saved their single 'til last, and it's kind of their best song. Maybe they've gotten sick of playing it, but I'm not sick of singing it to myself: "I'm a ba-a-a-a-ad thing!"
Weirdly enough, I hadn't been able to find any bands in the line-up for Friday that I hadn't yet seen and was desperate to see. So instead I walked over to The Sidewalk Cafe after work, where The Deli Magazine was hosting an anti-folk showcase. I knew Beau would be performing with his anti-folk "super group," the Ray Brown-based collective called Go Love. And indeed, I saw him at a table in the back of the room when I showed up, and he beckoned me over. Andrew Choi, whose stage name is St. Lenox, went on a few minutes after I got there. Beau'd contributed a quote to his Deli listing, to the effect that he "sounds like a beautiful robot from the future," and it's true. Andrew sings over I guess what you'd call a "beat" (an instrumental track from his iPod) and he has a strange, warbling voice. One of his songs ("Bitter Pill") was about sifting the memories of a departed lover and included a line about a fortune from a fortune cookie "from that Chinese restaurant that we had tried." Thinking about the small, self-involved activities that fill the hours of a relationship -- a couple undertaking to eat at a new restaurant, say -- made me feel very sad for some reason. My eyes got misty, even. But most of his songs are more upbeat and strange. I hung out with Andrew at the bar for a few minutes afterward and asked him about his native Columbus, Ohio. Turns out he's heard of Musicol, the Columbus company that pressed Bel Argosy's EP.
Beau and I hung out while he waited for his group to get their turn. He and I and his lady friend walked over to a newsstand nearby and got some soft serve ice cream that Beau swore was life-changingly good. He and Morgan swiftly devoured theirs; I got a peanut butter-flavored one that tasted like chemicals. "I don't know," he said. "They're usually pretty good." His band was good, though! And I love his song, "Wake Me Up When Everyone Is Dead." Is it giving too much away to say that it's about living on a cot in the practice hole up at St. Mary's during the dead of winter? Try to imagine that you are there, in the quiet, in the cold. A faintly glowing space heater.
On Saturday I took a break.
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