Author’s Note: If society is a hole, then Brooklyn is an abyss and I say this as a man whose family is born and bred in the borough, whose occupation takes him there on the irregular days that his profession demands his presence, whose friends have lived and rooted there for decades. But seriously…Brooklyn is the pitiable home to a whirligig of fashion, ego, fuck and stupor that is overcrowded, overdeveloped and over the moon on its own suffocated charm and had Mr. Trip not sent a message that Wharf Cat’s finest flowers (sans Bichkraft who were lost overseas on account of bureaucracy) would be blooming from the powderkeg of us v. them v. us again (nee Union Pool) I never would have set one leaden foot there on a Saturday but I did and I’m glad because nothing makes this old swole heart pump red quite like No Wave on a summer’s day*.
Cottaging had it in spades, though their take was more psilocybin than than Avenue B speed which is fine because the dirging space felt way more elliptical (thus inviting) than any of my recent panic attacks. Cult Maternal 4EVA, kids. Now where are my goddamn t-shirts? Honey did too, though they hid their metropolitan rancor behind amps and hair and riffs so huge not even the many meaty bouncers could bear their weight. Garage is a dead scene, sure but there’s always room for rock and roll dirtbags. Posse…hmmm…not so much? Maybe. They were more in the vein of 27 or Durutti Column. Antithetical patience appreciated by an uncanny amount of bros which offered up a quadruple antithetical so YEAH! I guess or “…” WALL DEFINITELY had the pulse and roar and bump and fuckit like they did the last time I say them beat and stump a stage but their sinister was in high-gear. More rash. More roaring. More discordance to send more pretty faces to hell to keep New York a safe home for the scars.
It was the best bad time in town, I assure you.
Now please dig, if you will, these pictures.