Within, Without the Jazz Age

I hate Jackson Pollock. A young, wire rim faced Jewess pointed her eyes deep into her Village Voice issue. O if only Albert Ayler and Ornette Coleman would corroborate on paper their mutual affection for Jackson Frigging Pollock. Then all would be right with the world. These people would byline the man if it got them more credit.

It's a fall day in 1952. Or is it 2002? Does it really matter?
A doctors office on the Upper West Side, she sat waiting ever so impatiently. She fingered past the delinquent pages, still engaged in the paper. She threw it aside like tatters to the floor. I am not worthy. Roaches are worthy.

She looked to the receptionist desk. As chance would have it, that was the exact moment the woman's phone conversation had gathered to a voluminous head.

"She didn't! No! At the Dougan's?! Backwards?! With the broccoli rabe?! Shut up! Shut up!"
The Jewess feigned disinterest while deducing. A kegger? She wishes to be known as the Jewess.

"And the children, too? That Kathy!"
Hmm.

A man barged in the room, the door banging against the wall. He was dirtied, shirtless, with only pair of briefs on. His body slumped as he stood, and he fell. A stumpy old dwarf collected him and closed the door.

Hmm. The Jewess sorted among the magazines.

"I'm gonna kill you! With a huge serrated knife, I will end your living days! I'm serious!", The receptionist laughed as she spoke with the oddest conviction.

Gateway Drugs

Easthampton, Massachusetts couldn't have been more off the beaten path. Running off highway 91, past Springfield and deep beyond what seemed like a hidden valley from a Robert Jordan novel (No, I've never read Robert Jordan...check my profile), lay a long strip of road resembling a town. My accomplice, Justin, had agreed to accompany me to this infamous Western Mass haunt on this cool, crisp pre-spring Thursday. Our destination, Flywheel Arts Center, sat on the edge of town, right across the street from a Methodist Church.

We arrived about four hours early for a seven o'clock show, so we decided to head back to highway 91 to see what Northampton was all about. A trendy student getaway, the town of Northampton is home to a myriad of boutiques, restaurants, and at least a couple of really good record stores. After some purchases and a coffee, we made our way back to Flywheel at around 5:30.

We figured the place would already be open but to our bewilderment found it locked and vacant. Confused, yet famished, we went to an Italian place literally a couple doors down. After we'd been seated for a few minutes, three modestly dressed yet definitely out of place gentlemen were seated at the bar. They were Wolf Eyes. The reason we'd made this two hour trip into the love handle of New England. I decided to leave them alone, denying my inner groupie and being honestly frightened of them. They're from Michigan. And they build barns. And they're friends with Andrew W.K. Don't pretend you've never heard of him.

Our food was sufficiently filling, leaving us prepared for the nights proceedings. We made our way back to Flywheel, finding it open, and seated ourselves in the front lounge area. We both found this humble space small yet inviting. An upright piano was flush with the postered right wall and a refreshments counter laid to the left. Elsewhere were strewn school age chairs orbiting the odd table and couch. The actual stage and audience area resembled the basement of a bi-level ranch, the surfaces black and sound setup somewhat rudimentary. This was the definition of intimacy.

Slowly, gangs of young hipsters flocked around and inside the venue. The messy haircuts, tight fitting jeans and track jackets formed a mass organism as the evening went on. A consistent collective mumble hovered throughout, as if enunciation were as outdated as the marquee in front of the church across the street.

You could cut the indifference with a Pitchfork review.

Finally, the show started, and a group of pensive young men took the incredibly tiny stage. This was X.O.4. They built a series of pieces based on layers of slowly building guitar noodlings and scratches. Each piece of the 20 minute set worked the soft to loud dynamic, each taking it's own path. Boring? No. Terribly original? Probably not. Interesting? Yes, they definitely held my attention, as well as Justin's.

Next came Grey Skulls. Sounds intimidating, doesn't it? You'd figure three sexually frustrated young men with the gaul to call themselves 'Grey Skulls' would pull something amazing out of their rectums. Nope. Instead came an energetic yet hilarious No-Wave caricature. One played a standard series of noisy pedals, the other screamed rather unimpressively, and another a played a scaled back drumkit. The noise they made wasn't bad, but the solitary din of that ratty snare just undermined the whole thing. Imagine a rendition of Cage's 4'33" broken up with the occasional squawk from a kazoo, and you may get some idea. They did make me laugh, though. I'll give them that.

The crowd had picked up even more since the onset. I'm a moderately tall person, so I easily observed a sea of people in this dark, cramped room. Three guys took the stage, three guys who were not on the original bill. They played about five minutes and were dang enjoyable. One played a keyboard, another played the saxophone, and I can't remember what the other guy was doing. Hey, the place was all a bustle, and these kids fleshed out a polymorphous piece of skronky, exciting noise that even an uninitiate could get into. If only I knew their name!

Magick Markers was up. I'm a very gullible and slightly paranoid person, so seeing the word 'Magick' (Magick equals actual Magic equals actual demons)on the bill made me a bit nervous. But my fears were unjustified. Two girls and a guy on drums proceeded to reach out and grab the crowd in the most literal sense. One girl thudded slowly and persistently on her bass, while the drummer thrashed in a totally different meter. This created a disorienting and heady backdrop to the singer's screaming, childlike vocals and her off-stage melee with many a young man. The set closed with her doing a call response rendition of that darn Mnah-Mnah Muppets song, a duet with the biped she had just pulled by the hair and wrangled a minute ago. That could have been lame. But it wasn't. It was cool. And so were they.

The energy waned a while and would continue to as the next act setup. I scanned the crowd, back and forth, finally catching a very tall man entering the room with a shorter blonde haired woman. Thurston Moore had arrived. With Kim Gordon. I immediately started gushing.

Mr. Moore finally took the stage. He opened by methodically waving his hollow-body back and forth in front of the amplifier a la Jimi Hendrix, a la Lou Reed, a la anyone who has touched a distorted guitar. This was a setup. Now, I had read on the bill 'Thruston Moore Versus Prurient'. I had yet to notice this 'Prurient' fellow and was wondering when he'd take the stage to combat the Sonic Youth frontman. A mixer, amplifier, contact mics, and what looked like shards of a broken cymbal laid just beyond Thurston's setup. About five to ten minutes into the hollow feedback a dark haired kid emerged from the crowd. Unassuming, yet strangely confident, Dominick Fernow a.k.a. Prurient turned on his equipment, and proceeded to scream unintelligibly into his contact mics for a good twenty minutes straight. He remained coiled up, almost fetus-like as he verbally scolded his amplifiers. His piercing yell was accompanied by impressively harsh fluctuating feedback, over which he'd intermittently clang the broken shards against the microphones. This created an orgy of sound I've never heard before, throwing me into pure amazement and awe. He climaxed his set by yelling determinedly into the crowd as if sermonizing them, his left hand fisted behind his back in classic hardcore fashion. He threw down his microphone and pushed his way past me, yelling "Get the #%@ out of the way!" I gladly obliged.

It was almost 10:30, kind of early for a show to be almost wrapping up. But I was content, glad that I had come all this way for an enjoyable concert. I said hi to Thurston, and was giddy with the drug of celebrity. As they finished setting up, the headliners took the stage. Our friends Wolf Eyes. Could I recognize any of the instruments? No. They build these things themselves. Instruments and barns. I wish I were from Michigan.

An intermittent series of squeals, mechanic yelps, and disturbing voice samples erupted into the room. The sound was perhaps the most clear and crisp I've heard any band have, let alone a noise band. A menacing bass reverberated through everyone, a constant "BOW-BOW-BOW" impelling everyone into a fist-pumping mantra. Nate Young hulked over the crowd in an almost pleading stance, slowly lifting his hood to reveal that dark, mottled hair. Into the distorted microphone he let fly a horrifying narrative to explain this terrible soundscape. Amidst that voice and an array of rhythmic feedback, the previously insistent bass broke it's plea to accelerate into a clear gun-like pounding crescendo. I could literally feel it, like the hot breath of some otherworldly beast come to take my life. My heart quickened and my muscles tightened. Sweat had washed my features. I was afraid. I was scared out of my mind.

I leaned over to Justin, "Let's go,"
"You sure? It's almost over."
"Yeah, let's go."
We surely and steadily moved through the crowd, going back outside to make our way to my car. A two-hour trip home lay ahead of us. The remains of the sounds were distant and I could hear the applause as I finally entered my car. We said goodbye to Easthampton for undoubtedly the last time.

I love music.

Laissez Faire

The tortured thoughts of a brilliant young man come manifest in this progressive online novel. It's his turn to show you the way. Every day.

Laissez Faire

Program of the Midwest

A madman lets fly anything that comes from his astoundingly bulbous mind. Love goes into every word Athos shells out. I guarantee you will not be disappointed.

Program of the Midwest