The Minutes were supposed to play this show which is why I opted to head out into the cold despite Cupcake’s protests and the clarion call of Zak Bagans’ “BRO!” screams (I am a simpleton on Saturdays) but they didn’t.
Not sure why.
Something to do with the logistical pitfalls of trying to shore up the punk rock in Squaresville, I guess and, at first, I wished I’d known they were a no-show before I shelled out my cover but then I learned that all proceeds from tonight’s gig would be going to help LGBTQ families in Puerto Rico and there’d be a sex toy raffle which, I mean…duh and some very friendly man in a good creep Sagan get-up starting talking to me about being bummed The Minutes weren’t playing either and frontman drugs and how amazing / absurd it was that a rock and roll band with dirty songs and silly names could do…you know…good and Yvon sent me a message suggesting that even if I didn’t know a damn thing about the bands on that night, if Runny was headlining, it was gonna be a good time.
I think his name was Lemon Cookie.
That can’t be right.
Point is, I paid and I stayed on the authority of a good friend and the smoky charms of a dirty professor and I bid on those cockrings and clitcharms and probably some butt stuff* and, in so doing got to see The Whores (not Whores…AT ALL) bash out a git/drum racket a little something like X covering Shellshag and then The Last Throes play a pitch-perfect Fat Wreck set except considerably more dignified than an empire based on dick jokes and then Nola Gras who also plays scorcher in the fried-sex thump of Bambara but as a solo (mostly, I suppose, but tonight joined by soft keys and effusive drum strokes) artist makes a gentle sweeping whisper and then Swilson who kept up some legendary with the CCR blues whip yoga party and then Trashy who started up with a song called “QUEER PUNX” and blasted out the new (well, not really, but your folks have probably heard the term “Trans” by now) body politic with a wry sense of pleasure found in three-chorded hope despite decades of confusion, frustration and pain and then there was Runny who were just a perfect mess of pleasure.
How the fuck have I never listened to this band?
They’re a big dumb delight, a gleefully crafted bash and crash of pan-sexual goofball heroes swill-bent on decrying the patriarchal confinements of “the scene” which, at it’s heart, is still pretty much a straight game for white men whose dads never loved them back in the right way or maybe loved them too much or maybe they were just so taken aback at the awesome responsibility of having a child they didn’t know what to do and so they freaked out but didn’t have the room for true personal upheaval and so they just assumed the role their own fathers took of the slow, simmering sunmabitch working days to provide and cherishing nights with a little cathode quiet but that’s a whole different conversation, isn’t it?
But, yeah, Runny rules.
So do all these dudes…
*And I didn’t win squat!
The post Runny / Trashy / Swilson / Nola Gras / The Last Throes / The Whores @ St. Vitus – 1.13.18 appeared first on Pinpoint Music.