February 06, 2008


Miles Raymer, intrepid critic, gadabout and DJ, doing some out of doors smoking. We went to Ben and Logan's dance night, but did not dance. We watched young Ukranian secretaries do a clumsy frontal grind, their lifted arms lifting their dresses and the brown leather coats guys on the dancefloors sidelines pointed at the crazy girl time with whatever fingers weren't being used to hold their plastic beer cups. Someone barfed in or around a trash can, so we sat in the back, and I wound up in the same booth on the same side that somehow I always get stuck in--the one with the perfect side view of the men's room urinal. And Miles wonders why I don't go out.

It's the middle-to-ass end of the worst part of the winter. The part where you kind of just give up. Everyone is smoking again, coasting in and out of a grim yet unremarkable malaise, sleeping too much or hardly at all, eating easy heat n' serve meals and food from boxes, trying to get it together enough to make it to the mailbox and return those netflixes. We drag ourselves out of the house to whatever hi-fiving party place is on offer and comraderize, talk about how we miss our bikes, discuss if Jim Carroll Band has more than one good song.

Then there is the beacon of PMA, newly employed Kate Rose, director of social services and pumped about it. We came up with some possible songs last night for our new band, Juan of Arc, "inspired" by the turr-i-ble Peaches songs playing at the bar.

Right before the Peaches song came on, I was telling Kate and Ben about seeing the band SINGER the night before. Singer are the Velvet Revolver of the Drag City avant weird gamut, all star but not. I liked them best when I did not look at them--they had some good songs with harsh notes. It is as if Rob and the old US Maple guy (Todd? Al? I dunno) are trying to out do each other with the theatrical, concerned concentration and ironic "performer" moves, and Ben Vida is just trying to keep up. The appearance is a sort of personality transfer between, and when they are all in that frontline, mewling together, it's like their imitating each other. There was a lot of touching of the face going on. Like, tons.

Is holding the mic and posing like you are full throttle in the middle of an aria, but yet not singing a comment on spectacle? Is recoiling from the guitar neck like it has hurt you about the power of music? How about fluttering your hand in front of your face like you are doing a Spanish fan dance? Are they performing about performance with sincerity or are they just hams? It is hard to tell.

Before they were playing I was telling my friend about the chapter of the book I am working on, and he leaned over, as the Us Maple man was in the middle of meowing "STAAAAAGECOACH!" and the friend suggested including a sidebar about how you shouldn't ever write lyrics that you would be embarrassed to say out loud to your friend. I don't agree entirely, but he's right. As I was telling Ben and Kate this, Peaches started rapping that I want to see your vagina song, as if to prove the point. Though, I guess it just depends on what type of friendship you have with someone if you'd be more ok with yelling "STAGECOACH" or with, as Christgau once put it, requesting a "glimpse of labia".

Then we went to see No Age, where I thought the king of the douchebags was going to fight us. In between songs, Randy was talking about how they were excited for the snow, and the guy was yelling "FUCK YOU! SHUT THE FUCK UP!". I asked him, somewhat rhetorically, why he was doing that and he started yelling about how it was 9 pm and he was with five friends but I couldn't hear him over the punk, but I saw he had five empty beer cups stacked in his cup hand, which explained fully. He mean mugged and stared and stared at us and threw some obscene hand gestures.

But no pretend gang signs.

Posted by Jessica at February 6, 2008 11:06 AM | TrackBack