This show was epic.

I showed up late to the Don Gionvanni Records showcase at Bowery Ballroom, missing Groucho Marxists, which I hear is a shame. But Black Wine was a groovy surprise to walk into. It's especially groovy when drummer Miranda Taylor sings. If you can never decide whether you like raw '90s alternative or raw West Coast pop punk, then this is the band for you.

But I was there to see The Measure [SA] and Screaming Females mainly. Having never been to New Brunswick, I know there's something a little untoward about my fixation on punk bands from there, but they are doing it how I like it. Singer and guitar player Lauren Measure of the The Measure is one of the greatest poets of our generation. I was certain of this as the band whipped through their stirring song "Drunk by Noon" somewhere in a set that gave me chills before the band's members had even built up much steam.

However, Marisa Paternoster, guitarist and frontwoman of Screaming Females, might not actually be from Earth. Or, at least, there is something distinctly otherworldly about the power trio's music. Speaking prosaically and literally, Screaming Females has a lot of disparate influences. Many of these influences can be heard though such pedestrian venues as mainstream classic rock radio.  And yet I hear in this band a kind of speculative musical fiction. I hear an alternate emo, the sound of melodic hardcore if its development had been defined more by a preoccupation with spiritual ecstasy, rather than disillusionment and loss. (And also if it had been influenced more by the likes of Neil Young than by heavy metal, certainly.)

This is not to say that I think Screaming Females is an isolated musical incident. There is a tradition among the Discord and Discord-type bands that I feel stems from a kind of clean, spare American mysticism, by which I probably mean Transcendentalism. There's a trace of it in almost every emo band I like, even Rainer Maria, but Rites of Spring, Lungfish and Moss Icon are the easiest examples of what I'm talking about. When I'm feeling crazy I like to throw every emo band ever and all of D.C. hardcore into this. In the cold fire and hermeticism of both the melodies and the lyrics I hear what it would be like if the worldview of Emerson or Thoreau or Whitman had a sound.

And in the unmoored wonder of Paternoster's shredding and the glossolalia of her lyrics I hear that worldview at once perfected and exploded, both brought to living warmth and utterly transformed. I hear the American mysticism that I have been searching for suddenly colorized and revealed. This is probably not the first time an American music fan has had such an experience and, in both cases, I'm obviously hearing what I want to hear. (I'd speculate on what role the genders of the musicians might play in all of this, but I'm far enough out on a limb for one post, and that isn't really the kind of speculative fiction I'm trying to write anyway.)

Paternoster helped back up my raving internal monologue, singing in powerful, incantatory tones and appearing in a high-collared eggplant-colored dress, looking like a mod guitar priestess from space. Her reticent stage patter mostly consisted of referring to the obvious with a certain nervous deadpan humor.

There were other bands too. JEFF the Brotherhood gave leather pants and dirt-staches a good name and Shellshag is a musical phenomenon (and adorable couple) that I would happily revisit. But you know who I was there to see.

Download a sampler of Don Giovanni bands from the label.

Photo Credit: Jonathan Lyman

My friend went to Fest 8 and all I got was these sweet photos

Going to the Fest in Gainesville, Florida wasn't in the cards for me this year, but my friend Sandra Julien of Seattle, Washington went and agreed to be the Potluck's Fest correspondent.

"If you go to this you will have the time of your life, but then get sick as fuck for a week after. Don't say you weren't warned," she reports.

She is, of course, referring to the well-documented phenomenon known as Fest AIDS. It might be that the average person isn't constituted to watch several dozen sets of weapons-grade pop punk with gruff vocals over the course of a single weekend, and that trying to do so dangerously weakens the immune system. It may also be that the fans and practitioners of this form of music are vectors for disease. Unfortunately, the research is inconclusive and No Idea Records has declined to comment.

I can tell you from personal experience that Fest AIDS is not life threatening and the Fest is totally worth it. As Marissa Paternoster of Screaming Females, who played the Fest last year, once sagely observed, "Who doesn't love a sweet frat party?" To be fair, it looks like piles of girls played this year, including bands like Cheeky that I yearn to see live. So bummed.

Seven Seconds

Lauren Measure of The Measure [SA]

Sheena Ozzella of Lemuria

Epic line

Party Pooper: An Intimate Evening with The Emotron

I wrote this months ago for a zine I don't think is ever going to exist:

I was really excited for the show at 141 Moreland that The Emotron was playing. But I didn’t know The Emotron was playing. My friend Sandra sent me the Myspace for this band called The Measure[SA]. The hooks in the songs and the unselfconscious yearning in Lauren Measure’s voice enchanted me. I marked the day they were to play on my calendar. I couldn’t wait.
I rounded up a couple of friends and headed down to the house show. When we arrived there was barely room to stand on the porch, but we found out The Measure[SA] wasn’t playing. The Measure[SA] had some extenuating tragedy and so it was just The Emotron and some other guys.
There was no time for disappointment, however, as about four people in turn gleefully told me the tale of what happened last time The Emotron played at 141 Moreland. According to legend, a woman, unconnected to The Emotron and anyone who told me the story, joined in the performance by trying to suck his dick while he was singing. So he peed on her. This was an easy distance to travel for both of them because he was already naked. I guessed the guy didn’t like being upstaged.
That’s approaching GG Allin levels of fucked up, I thought, but it’s nowhere near that level of premeditation. How could it be? And, surely, no such thing would happen this time. I’d be a horrible person to say I was sorry I missed it last time and I wasn’t sure if I was or not. Or if I would have shown up if I knew that would be the scene.
When something like that is premeditated, you didn’t miss anything, I promise. But when it’s unplanned you at least have something to think about that you didn’t bargain for. It’s a strange kind of gift — unexpected horror during a concert — and one I would feel strange about seeking out. But, you see, I was already there.
I saw a band that specialized in providing thoroughly expected horror one time. They played in an art gallery next to a tattoo parlor. The art gallery was showing some really hackneyed bondage photos. The band’s name was some play on the word “fuck” and there was urine and blood and nudity and drums and guitar. The music was a stale punk-rock backdrop for the front man bashing himself in the head with the mic until he bled copiously. I remember feeling tired. It was really late but I felt like seeing the whole thing since I had gone down there to check it out. And I had gone to be certain that I wasn't missing anything. The rest of the audience seemed kind of into it.
I wonder how many bands out there are still rehashing that self-mutilation for fun and profit shtick. It takes a special person to do something like that all the time but it also loses something (everything?) when you realize they do it all the time. But something about The Emotron puts him in a different class. And his show couldn't have felt more different from The Whatever-Fucks's show.
The Emotron’s deal could be construed as self-humiliation. Or, maybe, audience humiliation — depending on what the audience is expecting. Or, just maybe, this is who he is and what he does and the audience's expectations aren't really a consideration. I'd like to imagine that.
I was expecting entertainment. One of the guys who helped put on shows and lived there at the time specifically promised, if nothing else, I’d be entertained.
The Emotron, an ethereally spindly kid with an angelic face, started singing karaoke style over something that sounded like video game music from the '80s. The song employed only the crudest, purest building blocks of pop melody. He wore a black wig and a cowboy outfit and sung his heart out about the fact that people his age bought houses and got married. Presumably, he didn’t. But you got the feeling he didn’t really want to do those things either.
So I got my hooks and my (vague) yearning. Plus, The Emotron mostly seemed to yearn for the '90s, something I can identify with. That’s all the entertainment I’ll ever ask for right there. But then he threw in costume changes and all this violent lurching. With each song he peeled away another layer of clothes, taking on a new persona with each costume he revealed. That was almost more entertainment than I can handle. One grand visual revelation was his actual hair, which was shaven to look like he had a dad-style receding hairline. If I recall correctly, he also has an Izod alligator tattooed on his breast.
No tease, The Emotron wound up in a skimpy thong. It was like a bachelorette party, except mostly the boys were all up in his shit. They lurched and sang along with him until it felt like the room was rocking. There was some spitting.
He upped the ante again when he used some sort of foamy hair care product as fuel to light his crotch on fire. He repeated the stunt after dispensing with his thong. All of this happened very quickly and in an atmosphere of sweaty, beery frenzy, yet it stayed just inside the lurid-but-cozy realm of a sideshow. That is where The Emotron revealed himself to be an showman of vaudevillian caliber. Because I don’t think many of us saw it coming when he took a shit on a towel.
While the electronic calliope played on, The Emotron lay on his back and held his narrow butt cheeks apart to expel a tidy log onto its receiving blanket. With a stage illusionist’s speed he folded the towel and whisked it out of sight. The fragrance lingered but, other than that, he erased every sign of the deed with military precision — a surgical strike on most, if not all, human and animal social taboos and all applicable health codes. It seems that The Emotron needs no uninvited volunteers from the audience to do this sort of thing. Some people left. Even the dudes who were drinking beer out of his mouth calmed down a little.
This was something more than entertainment or other than entertainment. Or art even, though it did make me think. And it wasn't show business in the normal sense of the word either. Everything is context. This guy pooped on the floor at a punk show at his friend’s house. And he's been doing this sort of thing for awhile.
I have a feeling this is The Emotron’s real life. There isn't too much punk like that these days. I'm not even totally sure if there ever was. I guess that's why I liked the show even though I had a pretty good idea of what I was in for and, by all accounts, he has peed on strangers who may or may not have been mentally competent at the time.
In closing, I don’t know what it would say about art or pop music or public defecation if The Emotron ever got booked for the Whitney Biennial; but, after watching his YouTube videos, I can say The Emotron definitely should have his own kids show. He teaches vocabulary words and projectile vomits Yoo-Hoo at will. That would be a huge hit with the little guys. Also, Kids love poop jokes more than anyone.