This is how I like to think my Sundays will unfold:
Wake up before 8, feeling ready. Grind some coffee and sip it listening to something erudite and empowering on the radio while I burn through the Sunday Puzzle. Go to gym. Lift. Run. Sweat. Mark personal bests and then go home. Make a smoothie. Wake the lady. Walk the dogs. Shower. Shave. Fuck. Do laundry. Do lunch. Build something. Write something. See a movie. Walk the dogs. Have a drink. Cook dinner. Eat dinner. Walk the dogs. Fuck. Settle into bed satisfied with my life and times and look forward to, at least, 8 hours of uninterrupted rest.
But they never do.
They get close, sometimes, but mostly my Sundays revolve around combatant anxiety, unremarkable headaches and a general sense that the world is a grim tournament overcrowded with pricks and there’s not a damn thing anyone can do about it.
So, yeah, Sundays can eat a dick.
Unless I’m at Vitus.
Then they’re usually pretty all right.
Space glam chopped, screwed and downtuned to honor the gloom of hedonistic virtue. There’s a lot of Cure happening in these dudes and probably much more but ever since the soundman cut off PIL to play Faith I can’t think of anything other than the gold standard for indulgent echo croons and how, no matter how fantastical my dreariness, I just could NEVER get into that record.
I am likewise having a bit of a hard time getting with this black and silver duo but that’s just me and mine. The place is packed with barely legals and highly fashionables and most of them have their eyes closed as they sway gently to the sullen ecstasy of this isolation ritual.
It’s been five years since I last saw Cold Cave. That was Texas. Prurient was playing with them then and he was a total ham. It was grandiosely glum and totally inappropriate for an easy drinking dust afternoon but I loved it.
Come to think of it, though, that might’ve been the last time I actually listened to the band. I’ve heard a few tracks here and there as Wesley Eisold is cursed with a tireless work ethic that leads to prolific outputs and questionable antics (remember when ANTIFA was out to get him?) and so the sonic exploits of Cold Cave are something of an inevitability but nothing sunk it’s teeth in and his release dates always seem to coincide with me falling down an abyss of John Fahey.
So yeah, I went into this gig rather dated and blind and reasonably confidant I’d be bored shitless.
I wasn’t though.
I was fucking riveted.
Yes, the band had its share of inky indlugences: Max G. Morton’s song was total high school poetry and the “People Are Poison” display (though not entirely inaccurate) was just a touch too “burn down the Hot Topic” for me to take without chewing my cheek but goddamn if Mr. Eisold isn’t one bombastic motherfucker of a front man. Howling, screaming, flailing, crooning. Wholly forgoing the static privilege afforded the goth/post/cold wave singer in favor of the reckless presence of his hardcore roots.
He spent half of “Underworld USA” on the floor, surrounding by horde of frothing courtesans eager to touch him, to feel him and to shout their fucking lungs out.
It was an unexpected moment of complete exuberation so brazenly free of bullshit it made me think, for a moment, that everything was gonna be okay.