Go see the 34-photo Full Bleed party slideshow.
With Lil Daggers, Beings, Ticks, and Feathers
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Better than: A mouthful of asphalt and/or a complimentary Pabst.
Typically, there's no reason a Miami partier would ever arrive early for anything. (The 305 formula: Reported start + Two hours and 24 minutes - Duration of travel - 10 minutes for Pollo Campero drive-thru = Suggested arrival time.) But last night ... We really should have showed up around, say, 9 p.m. because the Vice people were giving out FREE PBR!!!
Yeah. We're probably overstating our excitement with those capital letters and multiple exclamation points. Like one friend sneered last week: "What is Pabst anyway? Watery hipster beer that tastes like dirty pennies." (Note: We don't necessarily agree. Just interjecting for the sake of argument.) And yet, you gotta be a pretty jaded motherfucker to simply shrug your shoulders at stuff without a price tag.
In any case, we totally missed the giveaway. When we asked the bartender at 11:44 p.m., "So, um, a friend told us there's complimentary tallboys and is this true?," he just smiled and shook his head, derisively, "All gone." Meanwhile, every member of every band was sucking on a FREE PBR!!! And all the younger, prettier, cooler people were sucking on a FREE PBR!!! And all the obvious industry cranks were sucking on a FREE PBR!!!
Inside, we burned. On the outside, though, we remained aloof, ordering a can of Tecate (or the Mexican PBR, as later described by Johnny of Lil Daggers) and escaping into Bar's backyard for a look at some skate pics.
Now, ostensibly, these photos were the real reason for the party. It wasn't actually about the beer or the bands. It was about this book, Full Bleed: New York City Skateboard Photography, a hardcover collection of snapshots from a whole gang of storied shooters like Spike Jonze, Ed Templeton, Larry Clark, Tobin Yelland, and Peter Sutherland. Several dozen samples were tacked to a wall, showing skate rats and other types, pulling off tricks or eating ashphalt or sometimes smoking a cigarette. From a foldout table in the corner, you could buy the book and a t-shirt for $35. (Since maybe you weren't there, get the thing online.)
Back inside, the first band (or dude) of the night -- Feathers -- had started into its (or his) set. Looking like he was setting up a massively complex experiment, the guy hovered over his equipment, grinding out a synthesized screech that wriggled and wound deeply into our ears. This particular night's noise sounded like horror movie music from outerspace with a small dose of Psychic TV. It was good. But those waiting in the increasingly long restroom line (too much FREE PBR!!!) seemed strangely unnerved by the skronky screaming sounds. Hmm ... Could Feathers have found the yellow tone? Someone email the CIA.
A few Tecates later, the next crew -- Ticks -- set up its shit and started banging it out. In a blitz of two-minute tracks, the guitar-and-drums duo ripped some rock 'n' roll so hard that memories were erased. After the set, neither member could remember which songs they played. Even nameless, though, the songs were solid. Imagine a three-way between Count Five, the Voidoids, and late-ish Black Flag. Suggested track titles: "Trip to Skeleton Hill," "Fuck and Fade," and "Sober Celebration"
Then -- fast -- Beings were ready. And launching into a selection of spiraling tunes that twisted viciously from sloppy metal to skuzzy hardcore to opiate-soaked indie, the three-piece took it as a challenge to turn the thickening throng at the foot of the stage into a mess of human bodies. The singer led a bark-along. There were six or seven spilled drinks. And the drums punched a whole in everyone's face. But all-out chaos didn't erupt. Instead, you could call it a mild disruption with a handful of adverse side-effects and several instances of awesome.
Now, let's pause a second: If you had caught the hype leading up to this Vice party, you might remember something about a "secret headliner." Well, it didn't happen. Not that it mattered much 'cause: (1) There was no cover; (2) There was FREE PBR!!! for, um, some people; and (3) The not-so-secret headliner was now Lil Daggers. Whatever way you want to count it, you were getting a good deal.
And right away, the Dagger dudes smiled weirdly and rumbled out of the shadows with a final 30 minutes worth of gold. The band's singer Johnny (previously mentioned for his Tecate vs. PBR joke) came armed with confetti and silly string, taking a stab at the art of goofy stage theatrics and audience provocation. In between howling into the mike with total menace, the guy acted like a giddy, drunk clown or a PG-rated Iggy Pop or maybe even Wayne Coyne on a helium bender. It was a schizophrenic scary-nice split that kicked approximately 66-percent extra derangement into songs like creepy moaner "Dada Brown" and old fave "Outta Your Hair."
Our only question: What happened to the Yasser Arafat costume you seemed to be putting on before the show, Johnny? Allergic to keffiyehs?
Personal Bias: We are admitted fans of Vice Magazine, skateboarding, mass-produced American lager, Lil Daggers, and Beings.
The Crowd: A retrospective of hipsters across the ages ... There were Dee Dee Ramone look-alikes and neo-greasers and dirty go-go girls and emo nerds in hoodies and, duh, skaters.
Overheard in the Crowd: "If I owned a gun, my dad wouldn't even fuck with me. He'd just make macaroni and cheese for me every night. What? I'm joking."
Random Notebook Dump: FREE PBR!!!
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