Ed. Note: Charles isn’t here right now. He’s somewhere far away (with feelings that one day he’ll learn to express) drinking beer in the dark and blasting No Fucker because some days the heart needs noise, not music. So it’s a little hard for him to get back to the mindset that dragged his ass through a blistering Wednesday soak to catch a cadre of postpunks, noiseniks and pop-drawn space cadets make a clang of Rough Trade BK. Harder still for him to relate more than a some shots and a few cursory phrases regarding who and how each band went down:
WALL – Postpunk proper. Poppier and, consequently, more sinister than expected. I wish I could still wear fishnets.
Pill – Chaos drones and saxophone as a weapon. No blood lost. Where’s the crust?
Your 33 Black Angels – 12 string electric and a whole lot of company. Mellow Yellows vs. Black Betties. Not my thing but I wish it was because – secretly (or not so much) – I always wanted to be on drugs.
Now please dig, if you will, his pictures.