After three beers (before the first band even played) it finally clicked: Brooklyn (nee Night) Bazaar’s new Greenpoint location is the perfect spot for a devastatingly disarming 70s party scene what with the inescapable blackness contrasting tallow halogen, drab rugs and mirrors fucking everywhere. NOFX blared from some rooms, artisinal chintz begged from others. The lounge was a misappropriated cocaine den, the ping pong alley a white depression and though there were only so many easy routes to take from the rain to the…ballroom, I guess where the night’s mayhem would play out there was something so disconcertingly labyrinthine about the location that Joseph and I both kept getting lost.
So maybe it was less Cimino and more 5 & 1/2 Minute Hallway.
Point is, shit was weird and we were wet.
GLORY
Hardcore for hardcore, man. Throat stomp, breakneck and shred. No bullshit. No issues. Boston boys, I think. Considering the vast strangeness of the headliners I expected something a little more wiled out from these openers who I was under the impression were actually named FREE. But GLORY is better and I bet they’d be raze the shit out of a house party.
PAWNS
So, I went on this deathrock kick the other day which started with DI and ended with Alien Sex Fiend and – in between – there was a whole lot of Rozz Williams compilation appearances and even ANOTHER vain attempt to get all the way through Only Theatre of Pain without punching myself in the dick and by the time Ms. M got home I understood that the sound that had fueled so many fishnet fantasies just wasn’t what I needed to populate my Saturday stag panty parties and that’s okay because there can still be a place in my heart for bands like PAWNS and the high drama of their urban decay.
Jesus Piece
Why is crowd killing still a thing?
Self Defense Family
Patrick Klindon is enigmatic, engaging and terrifying. Husky-eyed and wire-framed, he commands the stage with tales of unexpected bellies, tenacious tape and the discomfit of human kindness before exploding, proud into that inimitable rasp that’s punctuated (except when it hasn’t and even then…) a post-hardcore cabal whose decade plus catalog is as dense and disorienting as any Tzadik purge. And yeah, the band was great. Tight as fuck with three guitars plus a pedal steel, bass and drums but this Klindon motherfucker was the beginning and the end. Eye candy and truth serum, wrought in a sweat-soaked deliberation. Punk as what punk was and could be. The pale whale in an inky sea.
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