Photo: Do not get stuck behind this man.
The month of October is a good one for music, apparently. Last Saturday, a group of us hit the Mates of State and Santogold show, which was very good. I'm not a big Mates of State fan, but they were interesting--more 'indie' than I'd imagined. Santogold, however, exceeded my expectations; I didn't know if she could represent in real life--she has an edge to her voice that toes the 'whiny' line sometimes (think Gwen Stefani meets M.I.A.), but her show was pretty cool. Her back-up dancers, though, were outstanding; they made me re-think all of my priorities (maybe I could be a back-up dancer, too!), but since I only have the one priority--my daily quest for bacon--I didn't have much to re-think. New priority as of today: find more priorities, ones that don't include a dead animal, and maybe get a job. Plus, the dancers had shiny-gold, billowing M.C. Hammer shirts that took me back, WAY WAY BACK, back to a day when I was too legit to quit.
Last night we took Whoreleen to The Presets/Cut Copy show for her birthday, and a rocking good time was had. I have to say, I'd been waiting for this Cut Copy show forever, but it was the opening band, The Presets, who showed up and delivered the most memorable performance. All of their songs have this driving beat that makes you want to shake some ass and throw out a hip; they're dark, fun, energetic, locomotive. The first song (embedded here) kicked off the dance party vibe, and that feeling never fizzled out. The Presets sound a bit like The Killers, but more gay, if you can imagine anything gayer than The Killers. Sum 41, maybe. Toby Keith, for sure.
Other feelings that stayed with us throughout the night:
BURNING RESENTMENT, mostly at the embarrassingly drunk Russian whore dancing on top of us the entire night. I'm very aware of the Russian Sex Kitten "stereotype", but since I've never met a Russian woman who has ever broken that stereotype, I'm just going to say she was your typical female Russki. Add to that fourteen gallons of alcohol and her faux self-confidence, and you have this: a Marilyn Monroe-wannabe doing upright lap dances on the four men around us, testing out her wobbly burlesque moves in between buckling and falling into us repeatedly. Watching her dance was like being trapped in a Nagel print, or like DYING, OVER AND OVER AGAIN. As much as I enjoy hookers and alcoholics and badly-executed lap dances (OH GOD HOW I LOVE THEM) this mail-order bride was one sexy dance away from getting her teeth knocked out by my incredibly-patient Fist of Rage.
EYE-ROLLING DISBELIEF at the TWELVE-FOOT TALL JACKASS WHO STOOD RIGHT IN FRONT OF US. After securing our spot in the center, about four rows back, and standing there for an hour, along comes Douchey McDoucherton who plants his tree trunk of a body right in front of us, completely blocking the stage from Whoreleen. Normally, I'm okay with looking around the person in question, because everything gets shifted when you're dancing; NOTHING was getting around this dude, not light or sound or hopes or dreams. As Whoreleen said, 'Can't he just take one for the team and always stand in the back at shows?' You can't choose your ancestry or genetics--he can't do much about descending from a line of Jolly Green Giants--but being a total asshole is a CHOICE. And standing directly in front of a short girl when you are Brobdingnagian is a dick move, dude. Too bad about your face and your height and your whore of a Russian girlfriend, but next time, be a gentleman.
UNFUNNY IRONY at running into the people we've been avoiding. Happens every time. It happened to Whoreleen and also to me; the exact second you think, 'I hope ****** isn't here,' they show up with an entourage, looking smug and thin and adorable. I wish there was a better way to deal with this scenario, but I felt our solution--joining the Witness Protection Program and moving to Mexico--was the most mature solution we could come up with at the time. I wonder when my knee-jerk reactions will rise above a junior high level, if ever. Sometimes I'm actually amazed that I'm in my thirties, because usually my attitude is something like Eeyore meets Mr. Grumpy meets Death Row.
The Cut Copy show was awesome, but we were so tired (translation: old, old, and old) that we ended up sitting down for the show; between her cramps and my tired feet and his worn-out back (they are both UNDER 30, by the way), the three of us were quite the ball of youthful energy. Cut Copy started out the show very mellow, but it ended in a gay man's dancing paradise, crazy light show and all; the light shows for both performances were sweet, although I wonder how many Vietnam vets were traumatized by it. I'm excited for the Fujiya & Miyagi show coming up at Neumo's on the 28th--if anyone is interested in tagging along, get a ticket! The more, the better--and hopefully that giant walking telephone pole won't be there.
So a Happy (BELATED) Birthday to Whoreleen, and also to Bennannerammadingdong (that is his actual name in my cell phone--it barely fits), who turned 30-something this week--I'm glad y'all were born to keep me company at great shows filled with awful people. <3>
The Presets: sound only, no vid