Snakehole / Honey / Daggering / Weeping Icon @ Silent Barn – 3.31.17 Snakehole / Honey / Daggering / Weeping Icon @ Silent Barn – 3.31.17

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It’s cold and I’m wet and I’m tired so I had a bodega coffee which was a mistake because now I’m shaking and bitter and really hope I don’t need to steal a shit here at Silent Barn because there’s only one can and I like this place (though I don’t come here nearly enough on account of Bushwick being nowhere near where I lay my head) and every one I’ve met so far seems perfectly friendly and undeserving of whatever sweet hell stale brown and old humus might do when processed with a ‘Gansett and a pocket cigarette.

But it’s cool. I’m cool. Another brew and Joseph arrives soon thereafter and we play a video game and talk tooths and soon enough the crowd’s rounded out so I’ve forgotten my shivers and found a rogue Tums in my bag so my digestive tract’s on lockdown and I sure hope the bands start soon because I just notice this place offers Soju.

Weeping Icon

This is the third time I’ve seen Weeping Icon this year and I’ll likely see them more and I’m just fucking fine with that. They’re a noise rock band and I like noise rock bands and you’d think that by now I’d be able to discern one blast from the next but I can’t and so their gigs remain invitingly inventive from the QWERTY thomp through the necklace slide, the metal scrape to the drummer howling incoherent hell.

Daggering

I’m beginning to worry that noise has become the nom de guerre musique of DUDES who’ve aged out of hardcore which is to say that the more I listen to and/or see it “performed” the more awkward I feel walking into an ill-lit room full of hoodies, ball caps and camo with a dick. Maybe I’m just being sensitive. Maybe I have every right to be. And all this isn’t to suggest that the weight of Daggering’s heady oscillations didn’t leave me feeling rumbled free of certain revenants. It’s just that…shit. Boys toys can SO bore me to death.

Honey

Despite what my teenage triumphant attests, there aren’t that many great rock and roll bands left. Certainly not in NYC. This town is survived by hyphenated obfuscation, cultural dysmorphia and a postmodern yen so maddeningly intent on psyhosocial diffusion that anything that’s anything isn’t ANYTHING. Ya feel me? That’s why Honey is such a vital slice in the city’s meaty canon. They play rock and roll and they play it like the Black Betty Bikers intended: dirty, druggy, drang und strumm.

Snakehole

I had this weird feeling that Snakehole were going to be jerks. More than that, I thought they were going to be a total fucking in-the-red mess. I forgot, of course (as one does laboring on the daily against goodness and love), that Wharf Cat doesn’t work with assholes and as abrasive as any of their bands could be on wax, all of them have the decency to know how to play well enough to warrant attention. Hell, some of them can even command a stage. So, yeah, Snakehole were as agitatingly radical as I should have expected had I the sense to remember what show I was walking into. They were sweet and shambolic and scorching, as fully fucking pointed in their caterwaul and distortion as they were in their casual humanity. I’d say they slayed but I don’t want to get cute (or too metal) about it so let’s say they fucking PLAYED because sometimes, that’s more than enough. Sometimes getting out there, night after night after night, despite the bullshit and worry with no fucks left to give but for your band and your tracks and the drive up from my Miami to play for those mad enough to face the Brooklyn rain to pay attention IS the rock and roll experience.

And that shit is perfect.



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