When Ice Cream and crew invaded El Warehouse (a live-work rental in Little Haiti) last Friday, there was supposed to be a keg. Five bucks for unlimited beer. Well ... No go. Instead, kids packed the trunks of their clunkers with Bud tallboys, High Life, and other cheap alcohol options. I got a few freebies from new friends. (Thanks, Roy!) And everyone got drunk in the street between sets by Grey Eights, Sergio Pineda, and Flower Flower. It was cool, calm times.
But then, somewhere around midnight, shit changed.
Roy Neil Hunter mans the MPC in the neon glow of evil Mario.
Marta Xochilt Perez
The lights went out and all five members of Ice Cream crammed themselves into a corner, ripping through the raging doom pop of Pussy Rot. (Get the EP for free here.) The drummer bashed away in darkness. The guitar guy lurked behind his beard. And the singer seemed possessed, flopping on the floor and slapping strangers.
Instantly, the scene went chaotic. Fresh faces in the crowd turned dark and greasy. Tiny girls with braces on their teeth and stripey shirts on their backs began leering like jackals. Boney elbows smashed heads and eyes turned to vortexes. People giggled, passed out, and howled. This was an insane indie party pit.
Tomas Kennedy and his ax.
Marta Xochilt Perez
Now, it could've been tainted booze or gas fumes or the supreme power of Ice Cream's squelched screams. Whatever the cause, this band was weird and good and a little scary. Don't miss them again. I think they have Satan on their side.
If you like this story, consider signing up for our email newsletters.
SHOW ME HOW
You have successfully signed up for your selected newsletter(s) - please keep an eye on your mailbox, we're movin' in!
People in the pit, laughing, sleeping, screaming.
Ice Cream's next show is a party called Interstellar with extra music by Glocca Morra, Flower Flower, Totally Nebular, and Shit Got Weird. Adjust Gallery, 150 NW 24th St., Miami. Doors open at 7 p.m., and admission costs $4.