Ed. Note: Despite Charles’ deepest, darkest, darling drunk assurances, there are still some bands in NYC worth giving a good goddamn about. Skyes is one. To be perfectly honest, we were suspect of their prowess when we first heard their eponymous debut EP, riddled as it was with clean production, sweeping synths and blues-pop siren swinging (which is all well and good, I guess but not any real meat for us to base a screed) but last Wednesday we caught them play a gig at the Mercury Lounge that knocked the silver grill right the fuck out of our mouths. It was a gloriously loud, hypnotically undulating statement of feminine apex and Promethean purpose. It was rumbling and grumbling and scorching and howls. A display of such extraordinary assurance many in the crowd (and there were MANY for a Wednesday) seemed unsure whether they should dance to appease the big, sexy beast or just slink back into the dust from whence they came. We’ve heard rumors Charles had to hide under the stage lest he lose hold of himself forever. I guess that’s a good thing, right? Let’s just pretend that it is. Now please dig, if you will, his pictures.