There are few things contemporary artists enjoy more than forcing us to face the harsh reality we’re all dying slowly, every single second of every minute of every day of our lives. For the sake of marketability, however, these bearers of truth try to soften the blow with arty euphemisms…
Under normal circumstances, January is a brutal proving ground for NHL playoff wannabes. But this season, a year interrupted by a two-week break for the Winter Olympics, the reality is even more severe. Any team, such as our Florida Panthers, hanging around the fringes of the postseason tree needs a…
It’s common knowledge — electropunk provocateurs Alicia, Russ, and Martin of Kill Miss Pretty are possessed by an unnatural compulsion to “groove your tooties off.” Usually, they’ll just do you metaphorically with music, tossing off some slinky sex magick like “El Gato,” “Girlfriend,” or robot porn instrumental “Bas” to get…
It’s already the New Year and the holiday season is almost over. Which means, you’ve only got one day left, today, to do something with that half-jug of eggnog lingering near the back of the fridge before it either curdles or turns into another sad reminder of your post-Christmas ineffectiveness…
In this 21st century world where even your grandmother’s getting busy with the Facebooks, MySpacies, and Ashley Madisons, there’s something mysterious and exotic and enticing about a young lady who can’t be found anywhere on the interweb. So when a fanboy asks Google, Who is Diamond Hymen?, and gets absolutely…
If ever there were a night made for the kind of brain-bashing mayhem that results in permanent memory loss, it’d be Saturday. And if ever there were a punk club made for the kind of epic Saturdays you’d totally love to remember, it’d be Churchill’s Pub. No shock, then, this…
Why is it that everyone expects New Year’s Eve to be so awesome when the preceding 364 days sucked so hard? Maybe all this emphasis on the End is just some banal expression of Western Civilization’s apocalyptic mindset. Or maybe we’re all a bunch of overstimulated creeps incapable of enjoying…
Ladies, it’s a new year, but don’t let that minor detail prevent you from indulging old habits, especially the bad ones. Just because you’ve aged another 365 days doesn’t mean it’s time to undertake some kind of radical self-improvement plan. You’re perfect already. So when that familiar hunger for some…
Why is it that everyone expects New Year’s Eve to be so awesome when the preceding 364 days sucked so hard? Maybe all this emphasis on the End is just some banal expression of Western Civilization’s apocalyptic mindset. Or maybe we’re all a bunch of overstimulated creeps incapable of enjoying…
There was a time, often called “childhood,” when catching your unmarried moms making out with a fat, bearded guy in a red suit would’ve been a wonderful development of the most Christmassy proportions. Who’d have thought that Santa could be your stepdad? No one. And yet, here was the chubby…
Don’t do it. Don’t pile high that umpteenth serving of Christmas leftovers. Don’t press play on your lonely, weekend-long holiday film fest. Don’t spend a perfectly good Saturday watching the tree die its slow, sad death. Don’t stay home. Get out. Get a life. Get Bizzle. This Saturday, beat your…
Whenever the web seems to have reached its peak of weirdness, the whole thing whirlpools into entirely new dimensions of the bizarre, revealing secret worlds where you can watch celebrity breakdowns streamed live, read first-round NBA draft picks suicide tweets, or even e-shop for shrunken human heads. One of the…
You wouldn’t immediately assume it from the traditional balladry of “Sundown,” but Gordon Lightfoot is a dark motherfucker. Like his most successful single, Lightfoot can seem out-of-date, boring, and stodgy until you spend a weekend with him. Then, it becomes obvious that dude’s just as oversexed, drunk, and angry as…
A few years ago, the world of every Gen X-er and quasi-’90s kid was unpleasantly rocked when 68-year-old teenager Paul Anka decided it was a good idea to cover Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” Sure, it’s easy to see where this smarmy, crooner take on grunge was supposed to be…
When Gainesville anarcho-punks Against Me! released their fourth album, 2007’s New Wave, the band’s hardcore fundamentalist fans immediately swung into crisis mode, organizing counseling and puke circles for heartbroken indie kids nationwide. Understand though, the mass freakout didn’t start because the CD sucked; it was OK. The panic started because…
Two Saturdays ago, a beer bar with a no-bullshit name opened up in the shadow of the Shops at Sunset. From its trio of giant booze fridges, Cervezas (5835 Sunset Dr., South Miami) serves up an international selection of bottled brews, including Canada’s Labatt Blue, China’s Tsing Tao, and Britain’s…
Traditionally, Wednesdays are a social dead zone. So you’ve got a routine: Cozy up at home and sip a little white wine while obsessively browsing online personal ads or watching excessive amounts of TV. Then, when that gets boring, it’s bedtime. Two tokes of Maryjane and you’re out like nightlights!…
Despite technically being part of the weekend, Sunday nights suck. It’s almost like they’re infected with a terminal case of the Mondays. If you dare to leave your apartment and hit the bar, you’re pretty much guaranteed to find nothing, a bit more nothing, and 24 flat-screens’ worth of football…
It’s a misnomer to call Brit bad boy Rusko, AKA Christopher Mercer, a disciple of dubstep. Sure, the 24-year-old DJ, producer, and remixer made his name on the underground London garage scene with moody booty epics that sorta fit the dubstepper formula of dark, choppy beats at 140 bpm. But,…
Despite its seemingly official, compendious name, the Mexican Institute of Sound is not some sprawling, south-of-the-border government entity all about the science of airwaves and eardrums. In fact, the Institute’s only got one member — Mexico City cratedigger-slash-EMI exec Camilo Lara — and he mostly studies the art of shaking…
If you thought Phoenix dubstep duo UltraBlack’s minimal moniker was some kind of warning scream against the sleek and opulent evils of future technology, you were wrong. Truth is, Bryan Marek and Nick Suddarth make dark party tracks that, perversely, seem to revel in the debauched potentialities of a not-so-distant dystopia…
It’s inevitable … Sometime this Saturday-night-slash-Sunday-morning your half-drunk ass will find itself wandering, like a partied-out zombie, through the near-abandoned labyrinth of weird, winding roads that buffer Transit and those temporary Miami Music Festival tents from the banker-bustle of Brickell. But wait, before you pass out and puke on that…
