STALKED BY A VJ, DANCING WITH THE UNDEAD
Scouring the city for cool shit to do is a hard job, but someone has to do it. And that someone is me. The summer season in NYC has begun, which means…Mets' Games? Bad house DJs at Water Taxi Beach? Fuck no! It means it’s time to get loose.
Last Thursday I caught a show which I believe will be historically special. I’m one of those jerks who like to take credit for a band’s success because I was onto them before anyone else. Then I try to get backstage. I went to Bruar Falls, in Williamsburg, which sounds like a corny beer brewed in backwoods PA, but is actually the new venue by the people of Cake Shop and the Library. It has a big wood bar, soft lighting, and a nice intimate stage space. Despite a shortage of bartenders that made ordering a beer an epic task, I stuck around, because I wanted to see the opener, Tanlines. I’m in love with this band from Brooklyn. Last time I saw them, a gay guy who reeked of B.O. tried to go home with me, so I figure they give me good sexual karma. Their music has that unique droning, hypnotically repetitive edge, the sort that makes you feel like you’re on drugs even when you aren’t. You know the score: all drums and computers and a little electric guitar with lots of pedals and two cute guys. It’s a formula that’s worked before and I just keep falling for it. What a sucker I am.
Then I spotted John Norris, the former MTV VJ, who is very tiny in real life, and so emaciated that he resembles an anorexic version of Jared Leto more than anyone else. At first I was convinced I was at a place that must be important, since a passé former TV personality was there. Then I was convinced he’s stalking me. I ran into him at SXSW this year too, and he kept looking at me. I think he wants to be friends and next time I run into him, I’m just gonna have to tell him to leave me alone.
I stayed for the headliner, Jack Penate, this guitarist with a West African-influenced-80s-New Wave-revival band (think Vampire Weekend). Penate's a total babe. And he's British, which makes him a total babe squared. All these British birds showed up to see him, which also made me feel like I was at an important show. Whenever I am one-upped by girls who look better than me, I know I am somewhere special. And those damn girls from the UK dress so well that it really pisses me off. They can wear turbans, granny shoes and coochie-cutters in one outfit and look good. It’s really a mystery.
Penate and his band were really entertaining, jumping all over the stage; I appreciate enthusiasm like that, and it made up for their foray into jam band territory. (That’s when the distribution of fun is stolen from the audience by musicians enamored of their own egos. And I hate that.) But they seemed like sensitive boys who grew up listening to the English Beat in their bedrooms all day and I related to that since I stayed in my room until I was 18, sort of like the white girl version of this.
Finding a good night to dance has been hit or miss as of late. I wasn’t sure if Wierd Records’ goth night at Home Sweet Home was the place to get my groove on, but anywhere that advertises “weird” calls to me, especially if they get creative with the spelling. I spent my formative years in ripped up black bridesmaid’s dresses and fishnets, so I say ‘bring on the pasty kids.’ This night has been happening for six years and they only just started charging a cover last week. I was angry about the 5 bones I had to cough up, so my friend and I tried to sweet talk the doorman, “Mas”. My friend used the line that she really loved his name. He did not waive the cover. (For the record, “Mas” is a hilariously awful name.)
The music was spooky and danceable, and it felt like 1998 in there. I even spotted a pair of JNCO’s. The crowd was a great mix of trannies, Williamsburg kids, dorks and slutty goth girls. It was great. I also discovered that goths are super-nice; one guy in a top hat even gave me not one but two cigarettes I bummed for my friend. I danced for four hours. This was after splitting a bottle of Proseco on the walk there and continuing to drink $4 Bud Lights all night, which were so cheap I had to keep drinking just to make the required minimum on my tab. It was even a good place to meet some new friends. I became BFFs with a lip ringed and pink dreaded girl in the bathroom line; she even watched my back while I used the men’s room. I learned a lesson that night: goth guys aren’t as fastidious as all those Twilight books make them out to be. That bathroom was gross. Even vampires should think twice about good hygiene.
