Bambara / Stuyedeyed / Midriffs / Pink Mexico @ Alphaville – 2.18.17 Bambara / Stuyedeyed / Midriffs / Pink Mexico @ Alphaville – 2.18.17


One day, Joseph’s gonna punch me in the face for dragging him out to these surly Brooklyn gigs (Manhattan, as you may well know is a dead fuckin’ silhouette and I refuse to concede that anything off the L train is actually Queens) but for now, he’s content to get out of the house, drink a few brews and revel in the strange morass of 21st Century NYC Rock and Roll (or whatever, forever) and so, last Saturday, we found ourselves submerged in Alphaville to take in some noisome revelations and – to be perfectly frank – my teeth are still bristling a bit at the shitcan factor that stumbled and puked and surled about the gig which just makes me wonder what kind of a dick I must’ve been back when I was thin and furiously determined to get the scene to love me back.

But nuts to that, man.

None of those bands will survive me.

Pink Mexico

I’m not sure why I thought Pink Mexico would be some garage spazz catterwaul. Maybe some press somewhere, once featuring a bitter rail with some nervous tenor. We’ve had a lot of that (some good, some insufferably pugnacious) in the years since Burger came home to roost. Maybe stumbled drunk on DC. Who can say and who really gives a shit? Pink Mexico is much more belladonna surf drag than Echo Park drug party which a totally reasonable thing even if I spent their set quietly convinced that the singer was secretly Alcest.


Some smug jerk in one patch I supported and one I reviled came to this gig in a Midriffs shirt. I don’t think he was with the band. Just there to support the Boston kids. Still, it’s hard to justify wearing a band shirt to said band’s gig unless said band is Slayer or Maiden. Fan (one assumes) faux pas and reference bait notwithstanding, I took some serious pleasure in Midriffs’ pedal-punching garage pop. Not as meaty as I’d like a three-guitar army to be but just enough party brood to warrant a second brew.


Joseph fuckin’ hated this dude so much I made him stick around for damn near all of their set.

No I didn’t.

(and to be fair, I hated him too when he was milling about the crowd like the cure for chronic youth)

I made Joseph stick around for the radical bombasts, shreds and arrogance caped in a Puerto Rican flag and I loved every minute because it was delivered with brittle contempt and blue-balled dirt rock plumage which y’all know I adore and had the singer been donning a pair of shitkickers, I would’ve been disappointed to leave with a full set of chompers.


It surprises me that I know someone who broke a tooth stagediving at a Suicidal gig in ’83 but I don’t know a single motherfucker that ever saw the Birthday Party (or the Misfits for that matter). I guess it’s all a question of location, drugs and opportunity. Or the space time continuum. Whatever. Point is, Bambara are major proponents of that deep, deep terror weight that anchors itself in nickel discord, fuck beats and positively magnificent hair and now that I’ve seen them again I can safely attest that they are one of the best bad-time bands in NYC.

Totally fucking necessary.

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