If you are reading this blog and you make a blog or have internet presence for a project or a band you make, will you email me a link so i can read it or see it? Franklin had a new blog and I didn't know. I'm not into one sidedness, I want to know about yr website about yr knitting or yr band or yr agendas.
links on the right for a yahoo email and a myspace to message with. I'm just curious.
Like the other half of pro-blogging America, I have a review of Clipse's hell hath due tomorrow and I feel like maybe I need another 4 months to settle my mind about it; nonetheless. Peter Macia (so smart, the internet's gift he is)--I asked him what the album is about and he told me "love"--meaning not-cocaine ( isn't that what they said about Rumours?), which is what, on the surface, it seems to be about, despite averaging 8 references to cocaine per song. I was thinking about how it could be about love while I was chopping up fruit to give My Man™ as a present. Conceptually, I get "love" within Hell Hath, but I don't feel it or see it beyond lil clots and darts.
But I thought:
1. MAYBE For some people, buying a lot of shoes, $174 ladies underpants for strippers at La Perla and/or very expensive sunglasses in a song is like chopping up fruit presents. Same but different. My present is only $1.49 a pound though. Maybe it is about expression of loving to make a living. It is maybe as if I made a record about how much I like (love) writing for places that pay 50˘ or more a word. The satisfaction in having a paying skill is a simple one.
2. MAYBE It's a record about duty and freedom
3. MAYBE It's mythology--in the Joseph Campbell sense--not as in showbiz mythos, rap mythos, corner braggadoccio mythos neither.
4. Clipse are like existentialist GG Allin: in some senses--this is as gorey, shameless and over the top as you as can make/take it; the edge of trapocolypse.
5. What if Bloc Party made a whole record explicitly about being addicted to cocaine; like about stealing from your parents, smoking it on shift breaks at work, about court oredered rehab, or getting to AA finally 10 years later and only having one tooth. Like not even Steve Earle style "I lived through this" or w/e, like just as bold as Clipse in what it portrays and exalts. Do you think Pitchfork would rate it above an 8? or Franz Ferdinand made a whole record about dealing meth ? Would it make it more or less canonized? What if the Joanna Newsom album was like Back Like Cooked Crack lyrically, but still with the harp and victorian flairs? I know this sounds loaded, but I am just wondering the what ifs.
6. If this record is not about cocaine, it negates the moralizing it, lends itself to posi-hyperbole and discussion of the production.
7. Long story about watching my old best girl friend get strung out on crack over the course of a long year, what crack addiction looks like, and the part of me that remembers it well and is not suspended when I have to listen to records over and over with a dozen songs that are about facilitating crack addiction, sometimes triumphantly so and feels deeply confused. I am not sure confused is the word.
8. The "glamour" of coke has always been lost on me. Perhaps I equate it with people either being dead, insanely annoying or in horrible noise bands--sometimes all three--none of which ever held much appeal.
9. Per the paper of record: Four years ago did anyone think Clipse had classic anything in their capacity?
How many times is this story going to be re-energized and reprinted? I swear this is the fourth time I have read it. Between that and the other Times story earlier this week about a woman who just started trying to get preggo at 38-39 and had some trouble, and then at a dinner party she tells a younger woman that she shouldn't be so focused on her career, but she really be trying to find a partner and get knocked up PRONTO, along with the unending stream of stories about fertility and miscarriage in the New Yorker in the last few months-- it really rings an old bell...
re: articles that scare women out of the workforce and into motherhood, but in new language. There is a certain reality to it--that yr more fertile when yr younger and all--but do women really need to spend years HOVERING in a prep-state of "pre-pregnancy"? Grooming their wombs from puberty on? As Britt pointed out this morning, our grandmas ate terrible food, preggo-vitamins were unheard of, were on the Vatican method of birth control, neo-natal care barely existed etc-- and are still alive and our parents do not have flipper hands as a result. For serious!
"There's not much to do: Sometimes I take walks in areas where there aren't many people, waste time on the computer, relax when I can with a cup of coffee. Sometimes I can even stare at a wall or at nothing and be amused, but about 80% of my time is spent in a black metal related way"
Dan Higgs is playing tonight at the Empty Bottle. Robert Lowe opens. EXPECT YOWLING WEIRDNESS. I have managed to miss Higgs his last three times through, and I generally love Lungfish so much that seeing them play is too intense for me; it's like a seizure of truth to be confronted, and if you confront it, you know you can't go back. It's a real head-splitter. But if Higgs alone is like his new record, it should be contained at earth ragas and psychic jamboree en drone.
Which is more disturbing?:
The gerbil in the tube or
Tyra grilling Janet Jackson about her farts?
I meant it to be a short walk, but I turned in all my rap-show previews by 10 am, and realized I had nothing I had to do now until 12:45 tomorrow, so why not make it as long of a walk as I can stand. I meant to go to the train land bridge, but JR called me 7 blocks in and so I walked to where he was (Wicker Park aka The Crotch) from where I was (casually examining trash an alley in the industrial corridor), so I walked along Damen, where block by block it goes from homeless desperados pushing carts to the by-the-pound scrap place into half-mil condomania in the span of 14 blocks. After 10 years, it never ceases to amaze me. Never. Always shocked.
I tried to notice everything because soon it's gonna be NOT 64 DEGREES, and I will be hustling fast and swearing under my steam breath and not moseying slow enough to notice the apartment building entrance where someone wrote in sharpie "if this doorbell is missing--please call landlord: XXX-XXXX". Or that someone had put a surfboard out with their trash c. Erie and Damen. Or that Jeff Mueller doesn't have a door knob on his front door, just a hole for one.
I decided around Fort Wayne Indiana that it is time for a new Hit it or Quit it to get made. Which means if you want in, send a signal. Because fanzine distro is a young mans game, because trees are valuable, because advertising is a bane, because free is good, the new Hit it or Quit it will be a downloadable pdf. It will not be 80 pages. It'll be like, 18 or 22 or 30. You can print it out, but if yr going to read it on the computer, it shouldn't be too long--that's bunk on the eyes and the lifetime-spending. Honestly. Plus: It'll be done when it gets done.
If you want to contribute reviews, an interview, an essay, a comic, a puzzle/maze fun page, a mock scene report, or something--then the time is nigh. So what if yr 15 and never written before? So what if english is not yer fist language. Magic happens all the time without anyone knowing about it before it happens.
R U CRAZY PUMPED?
I think this is a good idea, and not just because I thought of it. Also, because it is easy and because I want to read new works of Cali and Becky and Lil Nate and JR and everyone and maybe like, a xerox collage of The Dils and or Lydia Lunch that you can print out and hang on yr bedroom of homework cubicle and an informative Q&A with NO AGE or a moving essay on the death of grime.
do it! It's the weekend. Get started on this now.
After my recent trip to the planetarium with JR, and enjoying the wonderful 3-D film and many exhibits about Mars and what the rover learned this makes me real sad. Especially with the mournful scientist talking about losing his old friend.
I was paring my first prickly pear (ever) and Matt was eating too, both newly arrived home. And he asked me about whether I had seen one of my favorite programmes, but he slipp'd and called it, inexplicably, "antique ho show". I think Antique Ho Show would be a great addition to PBS programming: geriatric sex workers come out and tell some war stories, which are then appraised by excitable WASP-y southern men with trimmed mustaches.
In case yr watching the conclusion of Prime Suspect on PBS tonight and can't make her show-- here's Frida Hyvonen doing "Once I Was A Serene Teenage Child" on what appears to be a european cable access show at xmas time.
And not to harp, really, but two people mentioned it--the Pfork review calls her "diminutive"-- which is strange given that she is in fact a full six feet tall. Perhaps the only other European artists that the reviewer knows about is Lordi,
so he was thinking she'd be more like the lady in that band; in which case "diminutive" makes sense.
To be clear, I ultra did not care for GM's book--I found it truly maddening (the review softened in subsequent passes), but there are parts of it that are still in my head, now, still, later, being applied, and it also has me eager to get through Dos Passos' trilogy--so not all bad.
Ok, after 3 diff. pcs. on Ys all tucked away and published, I realized what it is I was getting at, what I meant to say, but it had not come to me quite yet: the lack of modesty. Like, all that paegentry blinking big and bright like a Times Square Jumbotron---it's totally immodest; in fact it's so immodest it's like a fuck you to modesty.
(PS> Is that not the ultimate feminism? To refuse to dumb down, to indulge her idea some completely, to regard her own art so?)
Britt is having a contest on her blog, and the prize is a copy of a Billy Joel album of my choosing, autographed by me, to you. Enter here.
Long review I wrote of Joanna Newsom Ys from this week's City Pages. I could of used about another 2 or 4 thousand words to get at what I am really thinking about it.
Also, I think the jumbotron flash ad in the middle of the copy--the one of the guys fresh off of work, collars loosened--playing video games while pounding drinks--I think that kind of throws it, but hopefully you get the point.
At the bottom, it also links to some stuff I forgot ever ran on Kelisreview that is mainly nonesense and Rio Baile Funk 2:Totally Forgettable. The bio for the baile funk v/a had one of the worst taglines I have ever read--that the record would magically transport you to the ghetto. But then again, the "slum" angle appeals to the other fetishization of you and me and 120,000 Pitchfork readers, because we think liking it says something about us and who we are--so maybe whomever wrote that is actually just spading the spade rather than being sans tact.
Blogging from a pirated signal at a southern Indiana motel parking lot. As HR once asked: How low can a punk get?
There was some of that side to side "oh hey" weirdness that made me unsure whethere we would leave it at oh hey, or actually exchange words, or pass each other, but he stopped and so I did. We spent five years together, it was mostly awful, and the final 18 months he stopped going in public with me because he thought his friends would call him a pussy if they knew he was still with me. I stayed with him inspite of knowing that, for 18 months, and that is the first thing that comes to mind when I see him: That I should call him a pussy and just keep walking.
But he says hi and stops and I stop at hi too. He has a six pack and I have a yoga mat--in comic visual metaphor. He says "JR told me--sorry about your grandma" and it's so sincere it makes me nervous, plus whenever someone says "grandma" I usually cry, and so to avert this I try and make a joke. I say something about seeing old people on the ward of this hospital dying, suffering, the aloneness, it's really sad. Then I say the same thing I wrote here about when I get old, someone tie some corn to me, give me the good drugs and push my chair into the woods and leave me. Except I maybe I don't qualify "when I am old", or maybe he didn't hear it right, because based on what he says back to me, what he heard me say is not my funny little joke but rather a pronouncement that I would like to go to the woods and die now.
He urges me, with stern concerned earnest, to keep going to yoga and it'll get better, I will feel better, that I really don't want to "do that" -- meaning off myself in the woods.
I wonder how can I backpedal with out futher embarrassing us both (ok, mainly me). We have not had a real conversation in almost 2 years and now in the span of a minute on the street, he thinks I have just confessed a dire suicidal wish. I didn't know how to undo this, so I say "ok" and nod like I am taking the advice. Everything I can think to say "I know you think I am insane but I am not" or "I want to live" or "PUSSY!" would do nothing but furhter enshrine me as crazy, and so I leave it "ok. I will." and cross the street, ruing that I have left him thinking that maybe he just saved my life with his concern.
Interview I did with Jason Molina in the Tribune. The quote about being the person who watches the trash cracks me up--artist guilt.
I waited until I finished writing my essay/review about this record (see next week's Reader) before I read what other people wrote, and I found what Pitchfork posted about it to be complete and utter bullshit. Just to be frank.
"Hyvönen is complicit, if not culpable, in being taken either as a cute pop songbird or a feminist newcomer: She sings about cocks against thighs, homoerotic encounters, and one-night stands with candor and ease. She's just writing songs. But remember: She's a (European) (female) (piano-playing) songwriter who mentions Djuna Barnes, and this must be construed as statement of an ideologue unafraid to be naughty. Indeed, perhaps a female songwriter talking about the male anatomy and controlling her own sexuality would still be a valid critical point if, say, the last 60 years of recorded music-- from Mabel Scott's "Baseball Boogie" of 1950 ("Get your bat ready, baby/ If you can hit that ball, you can make a home run") to Missy Elliott (You fill in the blanks)-- didn't exist." (italics mine)
Firstly, Hyvonen is not the one to blame for the fact the American critical public/potential fanbase has such a narrow view of female artistry--that she could only be one of two things given her art (neither of which, as dismissively defined by the critic above, allow for much). It is not Hyvonen's responsibility for to strategize better positioning in order to manipulate of how she might be percieved; in order to not be pigeonholed for doing something played-out as a fluid and shameless portrayl of what it is like to be a woman enjoying her life. P.S. Whats wrong with being a feminist newby or a cute pop "songbird"? Since when are they mutually exclusive?
Vis a vis the rest of said bullshit: if perhaps the critic had listened harder, or at all, or read the lyric sheet what he might have noticed is that what Hyvonen is doing is not on the same track as the American pop music idiom/gendered pop-dialectic of "empowered" female sexuality--with it's allusions that staledated with Ma Rainey 78s c. 1926, but running in direct contrast to it.
Secondly, it is a "valid" critical point because every day, Frida Hyvonen and I and my sister and my grandma and Liz Phair and Amy Lee from Evanescence et billions wake up in a patriarchy, the fact of which is generally invisible to those who are empowered by and benefit from it; ignorance is your privilege right.
Thirdly, on the song where Hyvonen sings about a "cock against my thigh" she is singing about her unease with discovering her sexual power as a teenager, thrust upon her (no pun intended) by an older guy--assigned--and how she is thrilled by the approval , disgusted by him and ultimately isolated and made lonely by it (see also: basic tenet of life for women growing up under patriarchy, one which is generally kept secret). Perhaps it's worth listening to the song past it's second line in order to gain the context of both the "cock" and the "thigh" on that one; it's not a come on and the "control" is hardly hers.
Fourthly, within American pop music idiom/gendered pop-dialectic of "empowered" female sexuality -- sexual power/onus/etc is gained by cultivation or rejection of male desire (desire also expressed financially). In these portrayls female desire often does not exist on it's own, but is a subsidy male desire. The male gaze works as the mirror, reflecting the women's worth back to them--making the woman a static object rather than a living thing. Hyvonen's portrayls of a female sexuality (that in the review is assumed to be her own)--is variable, boundless, shifting, human -- as are the men in the songs (more than a wallet, a daddy, a cock, a saviour). The stories bisect male desire rather than spin on an axis of it; the stories detour through relationships (romantic and social) with men, but ultimately the story is HERS--full of sure self-possession and distinctly European feminism(s). Now, as a feminist critic who listens really really closely to every single song I hear--that narrative and the other ones Hyvonen lays out throughout the record are rare to the point of being a total effing anamoly, actually.
5thly: Not all songs of seemingly liberated female sexuality are the same; most of them are false fronts of fuck me feminism because it's the most accepted way to get approval, hold attention and sell products. Duh.
Sixthly (yes really, sixthly), to play like this feminist narrative is some been-there-one-that shit, you should really try listening to all of recorded history, or maybe if you don't have the time--start with Rolling Stones Hot Rocks and work yr way up to Hawthorne Heights' latest--and then, maybe, we can have a talk about "valid" critiques of played-out narratives about fucking.
Frida Hyvonen Tour Dates
11-14 Baton Rouge, LA - Red Star Bar
11-15 Dallas, TX - The Cavern
11-16 Houston, TX - Proletariat +
11-17 Austin, TX - Emo's ~
11-19 Chicago, IL - Beat Kitchen $
12-06 London, England - 93 Feet East !
12-09 Amsterdam, The Netherlands - Paradiso
12-10 Berlin, Germany - Privatclub
12-11 Cologne, Germany - Studio 672
12-12 Paris, France - Le Divan du Monde @
Alex Ross remembers Ellen Willis, as does Sasha F J, whose 'appreciation' of her is right on. Reading Ellen Willis, Jaan Uhelszki and Terri Sutton in 11th grade gave me the first inkling that a love of music and a certain feminist bellicosity could be combined into a purposeful future.
Ten fall releases you prolly didn't know about, or maybe you did, printed in this weeks Chicago Reader. A half-joke that I am not sure how it made its way in there, about the Dan Higgs new solo record, his second, which says how it is some of his most accessible solo work--which is not saying much seeing as his last album was 17 instrumentals played on the jews harp.
Local music scene fixture Malachi Ritscher committed suicide by self-immolation last Friday, as a protest statement on the Iraq war.
No one is covering it really, save for The Reader.
It is only the fifth case of self immolation in US history.
Pass it on.
Not online viewable, I don't think. Paper readable, newstandable, perusable somehowsabout, circa now. This one, the 20 interviews one has an interview with both halves of Israel most finest fine comic book/graphic novella about the afterlife, Pizzeria Kamikaze, Asaf Hanuka and Etgar Keret, that i did in Tel Aviv, with sand on my face and nervousness in my veins.
"Sweetie, I have some news!"
"Is Grandma ok?"
"Yes, it's goodnews!"
"Grandma and I are going on a bike ride, today! No! No! That fucker Rumsfeld resigned!"
(father-daughter jubilation ensues)
My Joanna Newsom feature , from todays Tribune. First of three peices--feature, q&a and review. Prep for the deluge; actually, it's more like a high tide of compliments and varying description of her hair. She was the most charming and articulate person I have interviewed in the last 15 years, so I figured go long.
Stayed up late watching returns with my dad, a first in my life I think, a real pleasure as he is ever-incredulous. It was also a pleasure on the eye, as all the CNN heads and anchors are made up in shades of pumpkin that range from "neon" to "aflame"; Carville looks like Skeletor and Wolf Blitzer is the number 2 midget in grime. Here's to third party viability next time around and hopes that the Dems can deliver everywhere from US evil in the interim.
Was my turn to overnight at the hospital, now it is my turn to sleep, then to drive home. Rotating out for a few days, see life outside of Intermediate Care ward, see food outside of donut hole topped donuts with kreme-filled kruller-filling.
GOOD MORNING, here is a PSA: If you are pneumonia-free and can walk--be grateful and don't forget it all fucking day. If you are related to old people call them; you have nothing better to do unless you are close enough to visit them. Seriously. Old people LOVE cards and will display them and read them 50 times and show them to visitors and mention them to everyone that calls. No one likes to talk to old people because it reminds us that we are going to die, but seriously, do it now in hopes that when you are old someone does the same for you.
1. When you enter the car, and turn the key in the ignition, the song on the radio will be performed by Pink Floyd. It will be off The Wall. It will be approximately half over.
2. When crossing the train tracks, stopped for the train or are between the train tracks and the "Pilgrims" DQ, the song playing will be "The Chain" or "Dreams" off Fleetwood Mac Rumours. You will sing along with the Stevie part. When she sings "Players only love you when they're playin'," you'll be driven to the brink of tears, because gospel truth does that. You will notice all the smoking you've been doing makes your singing voice 4 octaves lower than Stevie, perhaps like a drag queen doing Paul Robeson. You will wonder if dead people you know in heaven can hear how badly you sing and wonder if they are at all embarrassed for you, watching you in this private moment.
3. This will happen without fail everytime you go drive to and from the hospital after 3 pm.
My aunts attempted to impress the importance of having good china upon my 20 year olf girl-cousin. I backed them up, for some reason, with an argument that would only work if it was 1963 or her life was an episode of Bewitched; "One day, if you or your husband might invite your boss over for dinner-- you'd have to serve on china. Get it when you get married, you'll never be able to afford it on yr own otherwise."
This was entirely speculative, seeing as I don't have a husband, good plates or a boss. It is as if, upon entering the city limits, my brain has been replaced with the December 1986 issue of Women's Day.
& Personally, I wouldn't pay more than $1 per place setting for any dish set unless they had pictures of Pilgrims eating Blizzards on them.
Today was not such a good day at the hospital.
BUT The day was made better by the many wtf signs viewed en route to the hospital:
Dairy Queen writes "Pilgrims Love Pumpkin Pie Blizzards".
Haircut places: "Hair Ritz" and "Siemens Cutting Loose". Hair-ritz sounds like something unspeakably gross. Like warts that grow in your hair.
Also, a lit up arrow sign that just reads "NITROGEN" and points to nothing.
Also, a fireplace showroom that is announcing the new tanning bed shipment that just arrived.
The head shop: Smoke 'n' stuff
I also found out via sign that I missed a two day historical re-enactment of the war of 1812 at the Fort Sackville monument this weekend.
PS. Do you laugh everytime you read an update about Pastor Ted being outed by Mike Jones because you think of it being "Who Is Mike Jones?" Mike Jones. Do you think Pastor Ted being replaced by someone named Pastor Ross Parsley is even funnier? Me too.
It's Fort Sackville, not Fort Vincennes, and I vetoed the skateboard bring along cos I couldn;t find my skate wrench and ps. if I fell and knocked my noggin or my teeth, 263$ ain't gonna cover it, so peace.
The hospital is familiar. It's where my grandpa died. I'm not scared my grandma is going to die, so it is not scary. It's kind of everything-but-scary. Scary is the meth-dad waiting with his dirty pajama kid, scratching and waiting for the triage nurse at midnight when I was leaving.
Only half my grandma's body will work for her. Speech is difficult all around, I feel like I can pick out what she is saying a little easier than everyone else, due in part to spending the last 15 years trying to make out unintelligable, garbled punk lyrics. I try not to wonder "what next". Peeping aged strangers on oxygen machines, other peoples nana's also being spoonfed ice chips while their whole family looks on while you walk to a from the elevator, I get wonder and dread in selfish pokes. To me, my grandma will live forever until she does not. her what next is my what next is all our what nexts, so that genuine what next is more just ruminating on how to get right before that time.
I look in the rooms and think "If it looks bad, put me in the deep'st woods, tie corn cobs to my ears to draw the animals, and leave me." Maybe fill my pockets with seconal and xanax, for my own comfort, if someone can remember.
I ate at various drive-thrus at various times.
Debating hitting the roller rink tomorrow during open skate; I can't find a place that sell the Times.
Because I think it works, I am asking. If you are the praying type, if you could work in a mention of my grandma, Helen Hopper, I would apppreciate it. She had a stroke yesterday. Thank you. My dad said not to be alarmed, but I am scared shitless anyways, I have had enough grandma-mortality this year. I am really hoping to catch a break. So, off to Vincennes, with my skateboard in tow. There are few as perfect skating spots as the Fort Vincennes Monument. Scene reports forthcoming.
Reader spesh books issue and "more":
My thing on Bayo Ojikutu. RIYL: Season Two of The Wire. Vivid bad-on-bad plots that I hardly get into in the article, engrossing and a lot of "oh no!"--it's intense, I kept putting the book down because I would get mad at the people in the book like I knew them.
Some short reviews of Alice McDermotts new one and the Trevor Dann book about Nick Drake. The McDermott one is particular in it's style but she never lets anyone talk, for like 22 years, in the book. The mean thing I didn't say in the review--it's like a season finale episode of The Wonder Years--but the sister gets an abortion and Fred Savage's character doesn't learn a thing. The Trevor Dann book is only for dudes who equate Bryter Layter with their own erections. I'm not sure what I mean by that, but I think you do.
And also, solid proof I am sullying the paper--I used the word "pussy" 2x this week, "jizz" once, and positively endorsed a ska-band reunion. Banner week for gross outs.
Epic repost, but w/e. Teardrops is the folk (no s) who is putting out My Art Book. Barr, First Nation, No Age and Soiled Mattress is a bill honestly worth about $22 AND SHIZ IS FREE INSTEAD. Eff CMJ with 50 feet of dirty lawn hose, leave the Shins cover band jizz prom yr supposed to go to tomorrow, and go to this. Here, in all it's glory is the life affirming invite.
Beyond TEAM: such a moment! aNYthing/RockersNYC/teardrops/aNYthingGoes present:
PPPPlease join us as the coasts collide, the community unifies and the whole team (that is ALL OF US) triumphs!
...backstory so fast: CMJ is a moment when the independent and not-so-independent music worlds converge on NY, freaking out about "who is next" and
charge hundreds of dollars to people from all over the world for badges to shows with long lines that nobody gets into and everyone stresses on the hype... basically, everyone knows its fucking torture with diminishing returns... and its... this weekend!
but the flip side: if you are in a band- even the noble-est band- you kind of "have" to participate, so this means that among the bullshit there are real rad things/people/uits converging on NY at the same time... and sometimes these people reclaim and take advantage... THIS IS NOTTICE OF A NON CMJ TRIUMPHANT MOMENT!
Here it IS
This Thursday, Nov 2
First Nation (NY)
No Age (LA... and btw, it is actaully a known fact that this is the best band in LA)
Soiled Mattress and The Springs (NY)
...and DJs Rockers NYC (NY)
are all converging on 205 Chrystie St (aNYthing Goes... you know this!) from the early hours of 6:00pm-10:00 pm to perform and make a deffffinative document... produced by aNYthing! Yess! REAL TALK! Please come, its FREE! The show will be taped and super documented and and everyone there will play a part with their presence and energy!! It is early because this shit is major, like, too hott for full nite... quasi daylite... seriously, strictly from 6:00-10:00 but fully FREEE! and seriously, full disclosure, this lineup represents a probably once ever unifying of two cities' four most intense sub-teams! This is an event that people will look back on and just be all "whoah... that really went down? I'm glad there is s DVD!" ...So get your ass in the front row... or the background even! Show up to Show OUT! The bands will be there but the bands are nothing without the total team! These bands feed on fucking energy! PLEASE BRING IT! Its fucking ON! aNYthing is taking it there... the illest weirdo summit ever commited to video!
... and fucking bonus surprise... if you are there for this you will be guaranteed entry to that nite's Rub N Tug party that starts immediately after at 10:00 (and have you dealt with one of those door lines yet?) and the crazy ass Raf Simmons party after that!! BOO YA!
aNYthing/RockersNYC/Teardrops/Club 205 Chrystie (aNYthing Goes) present:
fuck $500 badges
this is free for everyone
This Thursday, Nov 2 6:00-10:00 pm
First Nation (NY)
No Age (LA... and btw, it is actaully a known fact that this is the best band in LA)
Soiled Mattress and The Springs (NY)
...and DJs Rockers NYC (NY)
first come first served, but show up early cause there is probably going to be a harsh line situation later on in the nite, but you don't wanna miss anything anyways, rite?