Who do they think they are...Coldplay?

“Who do they think they are…Coldplay?”

It all started as a joke. I tried to contact the publicist for Editors. I was passed around and feeling fed up, so when the press contact finally got back to me saying that she might be able to get me ten minutes with perhaps one of the band members, I responded with my first thoughts. Apparently I need an editor for my thoughts. I may have used the word crass and implied that said representative was haughty, but not actually stated such. I guess implication is enough, she wrote back merely to snap at me, and I never heard from her again. So I never got those possible ten minutes with what I am now sure would have been a roadie rather than an actual band member. Ah well. In retelling this story to our Boston correspondent, she was aghast at all the gatekeepers for Editors: “Who do they think they are…Coldplay?” As it happens, the evidence from their live performance will answer this question affirmatively.

My editor and I met up for dinner downtown at this little hole-in-the-wall Venezuelan place, Caracas Arepa Bar (7th Street at 1st Avenue). This place is evidence that god is a fat man in danger of suffering cardiac arrest and loving every minute of it. The menu is rather extensive for a restaurant that is smaller than my bedroom, and a large majority of the items proffered are of the fried variety. I have been to this place a couple of times, but I was introducing it to a Caracas “virgen” that night, so it was almost like new. I have sampled much of the appetizers portion of the menu, and loved all of it, but the MUST HAVES are the Yoyos (deep fried balls of plaintain stuffed with white cheese and served with the clincher of sweet cinnamon flavored sauce, so delicious) which are so sweet and delicious they could almost be a dessert, and of course the G-caca. G-caca is in actuality guasacaca, or the Venezuelan version of guacamole, which I believe contains tomatoes, peppers, and onions, and is served with chips from some tuber veg, perhaps sweet potatoes. It is possible to enjoy any meal without some G-caca, but you will not reach the plane of enlightenment and nirvana that you can achieve with it. So get yourself some G-caca and be happy.

I have not tried most things on the menu. I have tried several arepas. They carry various other items, but I am a firm believer of playing to your strengths, and since Caracas is an arepa bar, I get arepas, and these are some mighty fine arepas. An arepa is essentially a corn cake that is fried until crispy and golden brown on both sides. It is delicious en classico (plain), but fantastico with “sandwich fillings.” My editor went with De Pabellón, a house specialty of shredded beef, black beans, plaintain, and aged cheese. She really liked it, but thought perhaps the plaintain was a bit much. I went with Dominó, which is black beans and cheese, and I added some of our leftover G-caca--so basically heaven on earth. They also have this homemade hot sauce on the table in a sawed-off condiment squeezy bottle. The packaging is a bit off-putting, but those in the know understand the importance of this secret sauce. God knows what they put in it, but God smiles when she eats it. Oh yes, it is delicious-ness in spicy liquid form. It is Venezuelan ambrosia. OK, it may or may not imbue the diner with traits of beauty, fame, riches, immortality, and other god-like qualities, but it tastes DAMN GOOD!!

Caracas serves other things, like fresh made juices and dessert, but I have yet to try those, so I will not speak of them. But what I have tried, combined with the location, the atmosphere of the place, the South American musical blend bouncing through the large speakers from someone’s IPod, and the fact that the entire place has maybe 5 or 6 tables so its very intimate, quirky, and fun, makes me want to eat there all the time. The fact that its small means there is almost always a wait. They don’t do reservations, but they do do takeaway. I personally think takeaway is cheating. You need to put your name on the list and wait a few minutes for a table. Anticipation is half the fun. The experience is worth the wait. I should know (my editor was late, so we kept missing out on tables, I waited at least an hour as a result, and I still loved every bite I ate).

OK enough gushing over my new favorite restaurant, its not like they’re paying me. So we departed Caracas for Webster Hall. It was a step down in my estimation. We strolled the few blocks to Webster Hall in order to alleviate the “overeater’s sweats” (the discomfort and hot flashes that accompany a bit of a fried food binge). We arrived to a line awaiting entry to see Editors. We thought we were early (it was only about 9:30pm), but we had already missed the opening act, Brooklyn band The Big Sleep, which sucks because I heard they are good. We made our way up to the balcony as the mob crowding the floor was a bit intimidating to our overstuffed selves. We found a big green velvet couch and crashed out on it to await the show. As time drew on, we grew drowsy (dark room, comfy couch, full tummies), so we decided to stand before we passed out. We were trying to find ways to break into the “backstage” area, which was really a tiny room upstairs guarded by security personnel. We terminated all plans when we saw a scary lady that looked like she was probably the press rep that I unknowingly (ok maybe I sort of knew) insulted. She gave me the evil eye and made some gesture that I interpreted as “DO NOT let that girl anywhere near the band!” She could have just been some scary old hag that happened to walk past me with a strange facial expression, but I opted to go with my paranoid theory of her as the press-Medusa jealously guarding her band’s cave. I wasn’t about to go up to her and say “Excuse me, but are you that psycho hose-beast bitchtress that I called crass? Can you still get me 10 minutes with one of the band members?” So, there went all hope of an interview that night.

Finally, Editors came on a little after 10 to much fanfare and accompanied by a sound and light show. No, seriously. They opened with Lights, which I suppose made the light machine appropriate, if blindingly blatant. After that song though, all bets were off and the light machine was given no time to rest. It kept blinking and flashing and strobing all through the show, to the dismay of my eyes. After a few songs, I started to feel like I had been playing one of those seizure causing Japanese video games for a week. I started to twitch a bit. Now, don’t get me wrong. I love Editors. Their music is great. I listen to the album all the time (well all except that strange French Disco song, that’s just weird). But this performance definitely hampered their appeal for me. I also like Coldplay, perhaps not as much as other bands, but they’ll do in a pinch. My problem here is that Editors was not sold to me as Coldplay. The lead singer, Tom Smith (coincidentally that is also my father’s name, and technically my brother’s too) has a nice baritone voice, that falls much deeper than Chris Martin’s. Yes, sometimes the songs sound a bit Coldplay-esque with techno beats and heavy on the keys. But I didn’t really expect the comparison to pan out. I just thought it was along the same vein as any pop-rock band being compared to The Strokes. I mean, there is nothing new under the sun, so comparisons can always be made in some form or another, but the extent to which this one fits is disconcerting.

The light machine aside, there were other disturbing affectations on the part of Tom Smith. He did the strange seizure-like dancing (I’m willing to bet those stupid lights have some causal relationship with this dance style) that can be seen when watching Chris Martin in concert with Coldplay. The overuse of the hands, the crazy side bend - head tilt combination, gyrations at the keys, and other twisting yoga position dance moves are all straight out of the “How to Be Chris Martin Handbook.” One is tempted to look for an equal sign tattoo on the back of Tom Smith’s hand. It was all just a bit eerie. My editor and I looked at each other with a shared expression of “ohmigod, it’s Coldplay’s less famous, less successful Baldwin brother!” So, in the next two years, watch out for actress balling, naming children after fruit and/or religious figures, and becoming some other (bigger) star's mini-me (since Martin has taken Bono, perhaps Smith will go with Michael Stipe!)

After we overcame our shock and dismay at the sight of these new musical talents succumbing to the pressures of younger sibling expectations, we were able to relax and appreciate the musical portion of the program, which was as good as expected. Unfortunately, as I have a freak magnet somewhere on my person that I have as yet been unable to locate and disable, we were surrounded. I usually like to be able to see the band I paid to see live in concert. On this occasion, however, I was not as bothered as I usually am when a man, who had to be at least 7 feet tall by my guesstimation (hey when you are 5’ something-cough-cough”, anyone that is taller than you is at least 7 feet tall), decided to stand on a platform directly in front of me. This wasn’t so bad as it shielded my eyes from the harsh blaring lights, but it also blocked my view of anything. If we were outside, this guy would have been my personal solar eclipse. My editor went to scope out a better spot, and could not find me when she returned as this man’s giant body completely obscured my entire person from view. It was a laugh for 5 minutes and then that got old as well and I tried guerrilla warfare tactics of trying to poison his drink or “accidentally” elbow/kick/punch him, which seemingly had no effect on his giant self. So I gave up and tried to enjoy what I could of the concert.

This was when the weird girl with the addiction to bouncing hopped her way in front of us. There are some occasions/locations where habitual bouncing goes unnoticed: bouncy castles, trampolines, the moon, and most of the time at concerts. However, when the music intermittently stops, or when the tempo slows down, bouncing may be considered inappropriate or slightly out of place. It was at such a time that bouncy girl decided, not only to continue bouncing, but to scream like a bansidhe. Given that the band had stopped playing and Tom Smith was addressing the audience, this behavior did seem a bit excessive, but the guy she was with did not seem bothered by it. Perhaps he was accustomed to spending time with an addict (or a loon as the case may be), so we gradually grew accustomed to the bouncing and screaming as well and just tried to ignore it.

For everyone else there, the energy level had apparently been set at low and then someone had pushed the hold button. There were no serious bouts of excitement the whole night. There were a few points where the crowd did sing along and make some nod to dancing during All Sparks, Blood, and Munich. But for the most part, the floor was pretty sedate (barring bouncy girl). Shockingly, at around 10:45 (less than 45 minutes after the set started, mind you), the boys made their bows and left the stage. Ummm, excuse me, what? That was quite possibly the shortest headlining set ever. After a brief respite, they returned for their encore. They played Weight and Bones, and finally when they played the last gasp, Fingers in the Factories, the crowd came alive. I suppose it was too little too late. This was the last song, it was 11pm, and officially the shortest headline act I had ever seen.

In the mad dash to escape the confines of Webster Hall, a bottleneck formed at the only street door, which was serving concurrently as an entrance and exit. Hmmmm, who was entering when the concert had just ended? Ahhhh, apparently Thursday nights at Webster Hall is Desi Dance Party. There was a mile long queue outside containing the complaining ranks of the entire greater metropolitan area South Asian Students’ Society. What a sight to see. Unfortunately, their bitter complaints mingled with our pleas for help from inside the tiny foyer of Webster Hall rose to a crescendo that ultimately sounded like cattle going to the slaughter from several blocks away (I only know because when I finally escaped and ran several blocks in order to catch a cab, I could still hear the faint drone of dead animals walking).

This night was a bit of a downhill ride after the excesses of dinner. I still like Editors, but I doubt I will be going to another concert, when I can just watch a Coldplay video, or for that matter an Editors video, in the comfort of my own home, or on my IPod once I figure out how to load video on to the damn thing. Suggestions anyone?

Ringing Eardrums at Rothko

TOTALLY UNEDITED VERSION

(as in grammar as well as content)

Interview with Boy Kill Boy at Rothko

by Rebecca Smith

So Boy Kill Boy, take two. If you have been following along, I was pre-empted by MTV2 in the queue for an interview with the band. Luckily, I have a myspace addiction that I have not been able to wean myself from, so I found the Boy Kill Boy page and contacted them via myspace (mind you, I tried other methods, but there is no contact info on their website and I think I scared them off in person). I was directed to their manager who promised me a slot at their Rothko show.

Now, as you know, Rothko is not one of my favorite venues. Granted, I love small intimate places, but Rothko is more like a dank, dark coffin, with an itty bitty bar and a stage to match (comes equipped with own step stool for grand entrances), but it is all overwhelmed by two ginormous speakers so that no matter where you stand, your ears bleed. Despite the smallness, the crowd is often forced to leave a 10 foot semi-circular buffer between themselves and the stage in order to keep their faces from melting off as a result of the sound system on steroids. This often bewilders bands, and perhaps causes them to think their breath is kicking. This very well may be the case, so pop a Tic Tac, but it is primarily to preserve good health and hearing. On top of all this, this is a very New York bar, with New Yorker clientele, which means dancing is prohibited. People participate in this activity done strictly at their own peril or if they are foreign. If only Kevin Bacon would come and save us.

So it is with this in mind that I show up fairly late for the show. OK OK, I am always late, but this time there was a method to my madness. I got there in time to catch the end bit of The Cinematics, and discovered to my dismay that I wished I had arrived in time for their whole set as they were fairly good. Some of their riffs could be considered the identical twin of some Franz Ferdinand bits, but they take a departure after the opener. Strong guitar rock melodies and brazen vocals. All in all, a band I will be looking into further.

If The Cinematics were using Boy Kill Boys gear, why, pray tell, did it still take what seemed like forever for their crew to set up? Well, after listening to the interminably long mic check (again), Boy Kill Boy finally hopped up the step stool to the stage. They looked much the same as before. Chris with his eyes done up as though he were in a MAC Cosmetics advert (I still want to know how he gets them to look like that...while I end up looking as though I came out the loser in a barfight). Pete with his aber-normally long, lanky Abercrombie boy limbs sports his "cravat" (which any self-respecting American would recognize as an "ascot"--the neckerchief that all stereotypical Brit aristos or wanna-be Hugh Hefners wear with requisite smoking jacket). Shaz could pass as the stunt double for that guy out of The Strokes. And Kev, well, think of a SuperBall, now picture it in human form. Well there you are, that's Kev.

They were in a much chattier mood as compared to their Bowery Ballroom show. Perhaps it was down to the intimateness of the venue, perhaps it was knowing they would be talking to me later, or perhaps it was just due to excessive consumption of alcohol. In any case, they threatened to tell a story before playing, but luckily that was forgotten in a fit of giggles. They went on to play in a similar manner as before. Chris’s expressive eyes searched the room for someone to goggle at, Pete’s knees shook more than Elvis’s, Kev bopped, and Shaz and his hair kept time. They played:
Back Again
Killer
On & On
Suzie
Six Minutes
Ivy Parker (this is that new slower tune I liked from the previous night)
Cheaper
Civil Sin
On My Own

OK, I could pretend I knew that, or I could be honest and say I had to write them for the set list. Whatever. So this was a straight set, only interrupted when Chris invited the audience to step forward (which out of the kindness of their hearts and at risk of great personal injury, they did), or when he was trying to figure out the (dirty) name of some dance troupe or something (being my innocent self, I was lost), or when some weird guy inexplicably pulled a foam beer cozy/caddy from the depths of his knapsack to put on Chris’s bottle. They finished up their set (“Thank you, New York, Good Night!”) and I allowed them about 5 minutes reprieve. I was determined not to lose my quarry that night, but I figured it would be to my benefit and theirs to allow them to clean off the stage sweat (ewww gross-good call).

So, since Kev seemed to be the most responsible, the easiest to manipulate, or he was just the first one I spotted, I pounced on him again. The poor boy. I think I may have scarred him for life now. Oh well, the show must go on, so I set him to gathering the rest of his crew together, and prepared myself for the inevitable wait. I sat down against the wall in hopes that I could be camouflaged by it so the weird creepy photographer guy would back off (again, if you have been following, Rothko appears to be a breeding ground for photographers). Finally, some of the boys meandered over with a purposeful look to them. Hi hi hi, shake shake shake…..right so.

A bit of background:

“We, us three [Chris, Pete, and Shaz], met at school. Where we grew up there’s a pretty strong scene for music,” Shaz shares, “I used to be in a Brit pop band.”

So clearly the boys from Essex underwent a bit of evolution from then to now.

Shaz: “We needed something good. Kev is the catalyst of our success.”

So bringing Kev in provided some cohesiveness and professionalism to the group, and the added bonus of a bass player. But that can’t possibly be all a band needs to succeed. What about marketing strategies and building an audience? What about myspace?

“Well, myspace is a way of quick contact with fans. It’s word of mouth magnified,” says Kev.

Shaz continues, “Yeah, its like a forum for word of mouth.”

Cool, so, your audience is increasing and the dimension of space and time are decreasing. To that end, what differences have you noticed among audiences at home and abroad.

(A pointed look from Shaz) “There’s really no way to compare audiences in that way.” (Translation: What a schtyooopid question, you daft cow.)

OK, moving right along. What about the venues you’ve just performed at?

Kev states that the Bowery Ballroom was much like a lot of their performances in new cities or showcase events like SXSW, “There’s a bit of a ‘Right, impress me’ kind of attitude.” So that is what they aim to do. They use these showcase events as they are meant to be used, to showcase themselves as a new—and impressive—band.

He admits, “We were surprised by the response to Boy Kill Boy last night [Bowery Ballroom show]. We expected it just to be some industry folk and the press. We found out it was sponsored by the British Council of something or other.”

Aha, I knew there was a reason the Brits seemed to be out en masse.

So now that you have been across the pond, what are your plans for the future?

With the look of Pinky and the Brain about them, Kev says “We’re going for total world domination.”

Shaz supports with, “We’re going to do the fucking whole world at once.”

One can just hear the evil maniacal laughter.

Pete puts in, “Yeah, I’m working on my Super Suit.”*

Chris retorts, “You would do. Odds on it’ll have a cravat!”**

*Pete did not actually participate in the interview. This quote is completely the invention of my troubled imagination.
**Yeah, same again for Chris.

So Boy Kill Boy promises to be back stateside come summer. Their album will be out in the U.S. in September, but you can get most of it on i-Tunes at present.

So where to next?

Kev unabashedly announces, “Anywhere that’ll have us. We’re whores when it comes to that.”

Oh and on that note, “Kev is single” (unattributed).

Busting (a move/a gut) at Bowery Ballroom

TOTALLY UNEDITED VERSION
(as in grammar as well as content)

Brit Night At Bowery Ballroom

by Rebecca Smith

How can an evening that starts with a pint and a puzzle possibly go wrong? So I sat with my Sudoku, sipping my Stella (ok alliteration over now) waiting for the show to start at the Bowery Ballroom on Tuesday night. I was supposed to be going with a friend, but she came down with Avian Bird Flu or something at the last minute and was unable to attend. So I ditched the ticket with some freaky girl outside, and then quickly ditched her, and sat in the corner being geeky and doing the crossword. The overheads were blaring the Bloc Party album, which I thought to be slightly incongruous with the line-up, but I went with it, it’s a good album. I had almost finished my puzzle when the opening act finally came on, so I decided to finish it before going up to the stage area.

I ascended the rickety staircase to find a stark landscape of low-lit aging concert hall with small islands of British people congregating in cliques and generally ignoring the act, Plan B. In fact, there were almost far too many Brits, even in New York. I had yet to encounter a fellow American. Should I have been concerned? I started getting worried when I realized I had obviously not gotten the memo about the fancy dress. Everyone was way too hipster for me to pass. I was not wearing the regulation skin tight jeans, or sporting the uniform bleached out unkempt mullet, which apparently is the coolest thing since it was actually cool circa never (in my opinion at least). Hats and much odder accessories abounded. And here I was in jeans and a t-shirt. Clearly I was destined to be an outcast in this crowd, which is ironic because their whole look started as the style adopted by social outcasts, and is now excessively trendy. Hmmmmm.

Moving on. I had no expectations, I had never heard or heard of this band before. Plan B and his drummer, Cassell “The Beatmaker,” form the basis of this band. Plan B sounds like the East Enders’ tamer version of Eminem or a poor man's attempt at a hybrid Dizzee Rascal and The Streets, a pale faced storyteller who rhymes to a rock instrumental. They labeled themselves hip-hop, but the evolution of that word can be applied to Destiny’s Child as well. Draw your own conclusions. They raged and swore their way through the set. I thought the sound was pretty strong but fairly repetitive, and the content was a bit harsh for me. I am all for a bit of “f***” and “s***”, but it helps to use other words as well, you know, so it doesn’t sound like some R-rated Morse Code. Since I was among the minority group (ie people that were paying attention to the band), I could not tell what sort of effect th e music had on the crowd. Studies have shown that prolonged exposure to media with a violent slant will have a detrimental effect on the receiver’s disposition. I am unsure if all of it was a bit of role-playing or if Plan B really is that angry, but luckily their set ended before I could be incited to start a riot of one, or before it made the rest of the crowd inexplicably disgruntled.

Next up is Boy Kill Boy. This band has been described as “hotly anticipated” and “eagerly awaited,” which is fitting as that is precisely what I did for approximately a half hour, alone, surrounded by self-proclaimed cool people, praying the friend I was supposed to meet would just text me already because my self-esteem was starting to seriously suffer. Thankfully, between some odd Scottish guys in ugly jumpers chatting me up (although they might have been explaining the Theory of Relativity for all I knew as their Glaswegian accents were so thick, it only sounded like a peculiarly Scottish form of Tourette’s of “arrrrrrrr… world… shrubbery... arrrrrr… love… chickens… aye… thanks for all the fish… och wee lassie”), watching the atomic clock, and mentally calculating the probability of my making it through the throng of pop-rockers to the loo, the bar, and back before the band started...the time just flew by.

Before they even went on, I heard some British girls (where are all the Americans in new York?!?!) frantically greeting one another with "I was so worried I had missed Boy Kill Boy, that I took a cab instead of legging it!" I'm not sure if there is significance to vehicular transportation versus manual, but they seemed excited about the band, anyway. The boys seemingly just appeared on stage, I'm sure in reality it must have involved some walking, skipping, or jumping, but I must have been too busy trying to decipher a foreign language to have noticed. So there they were, the music had already kicked into gear as Chris, the lead vocals/guitar, was making their compulsory introductory statements ("Hello New York" and all that rot). A bit of blah blah blah later, they launched into "Back Again," a recent single. Their live showing is wonderfully akin to their particular brand of music: a bit frantic, excessively energetic, and there is the occasional showboating. One grows tired just watching Shaz, the drummer, beat his little heart out while his hair dances to the tune. Kev, the bassist, is bouncing around so much, you only catch a glimpse of his face when he does his bit of backup vocals. Pete stamps the rhythm for his faux-ivories out so quickly, at times one worries he may be launching into a seizure (this suspicion came about after a long strand of saliva dangled from his lip for a bit unnoticed), but he plays too well for this to be true. And Chris, well Chris is mugging for cameras and winking at all the girls making them swoon at his smouldering eye-contact (NB, if you would like to get Chris's smouldering eyes look, go pick up MAC's coloured eye cream in Gun Metal, as seen in Marie Claire). This must be tiresome and a terrible strain to him, I'm sure, as he is often calling for a beer.

All joking aside, the boys put together an enthralling set, judging by the crowd's response. I saw dancing, no seriously, actual dancing....in NEW YORK!!!! Yes yes, I know, you think I am exaggerating, or mistook someone with a nervous twitch, but no, I definitely witnessed dancing. Albeit, odd jerky movements that looked as though they were lifted from a 1980's Solid Gold episode or perhaps "The Fresh Prince"'s Carlton, but it was definitely purposeful "rhythmic" motion that could, in some dimensions, be classified as dance. I was almost too shocked to register that they played a new song, but luckily, the sharp pain resulting from my jaw hitting the floor jarred my attention back to the stage. Pete kicked it off with an introduction saying it was about the girl who taught him to play piano, and it was called "Ivy Parker." It was of particular interest to me since it was bit of a departure from the rest of the material in terms of tempo, and it was something of theirs I had not heard before. I quite liked it, and told Pete as much when he conducted an informal survey later. Then they got back to the formula with "Suzie" (which got the Japanese tourists in a tizzy....where did they come from? Did they bring hob nobs and Jaffa cakes?), "On and On", "Civil Sin" and the like. Overall, I thought it was an enjoyable set that would have geared up nicely to The Rakes as a crowd warmer. Unfortunately, we were forced to endure the Towers of London in between, which acted like ice down the pants--an abrupt and very uncomfortable sensation.

If asked for my opinion, all I can offer is an educated guess. My initial reaction to seeing the band was, "Ha ha, good one, guys!!" They looked so much like an amalgamation of all the 80's hair bands and satires of 80's hair bands that I half expected the drummer to explode. I saw the lead singer posing for a photographer in the hallway; he seemed to need to "get into character" and his poses were just so affected I thought they were choreographed. It was all just too scripted for them to be serious. It had to all be one very elaborate act; perhaps Rob Reiner was follwing them around filming a "rock-umentary." Or so I thought. As time drew on, and the joke wore thin, I started to pay attention to the crowd. Some, like myself, were all very entertained by their facetiousness, and the rest were taking it seriously. Some girls, dressed like Motley Crue groupies, knew all the words and were dancing around like they had forgotten to take their Ritalin. Hmmm, was this all a huge scripted event with lots of ironic characters, or were these people serious? The cold hand of fear slapped me across the face right about the time the arm of one of the aforementioned girls did the same. Well, that did it. Between abusing the audience (I think that girl actually got a concussion from that flying mic stand, you meanies), personifying clichés (oh yes, aren't you just so punk rock spitting at people from atop the speaker?), and just being WAY over-the-top (was it necessary to get into a scuffle with that guy from MTV2, who really wants to see two skinny white boys in a fight outside of "Jerry Springer"?), I began to lose my sense of humor. Maybe these boys weren't just taking the piss. Maybe they really believed this was the key to musical success. Well, it all went over like phlegm-flavored beer. The crowd was none too pleased with the outcome, especially when they realized none of the band members were going to explode. Insults and other objects started to fly between the stage and the audience, so I sought out other activities. It was at this point that I attempted to secure some face time with the boys from Boy Kill Boy, which they "eagerly anticipated."

Well, perhaps that is not exactly true. I accosted Kev at the bar. He had the look of a deer in headlights and might have agreed to anything provided it meant I would walk away from him with great haste. So he shrugged me off with a "find us after this set," as though they were really into The Towers performance (and if they were, they have just lost points in my book). Fine fine, I hate to interrupt, so I go back and stand around in a less populated area but still keeping my eye out for flying limbs, bottles, or phlegm (yeah it was pretty much all out war by that point). Luckily, my dilligence paid off and I survived The Towers performance, and immediately went into search-and-destroy...I mean interview.....mode, with Boy Kill Boy as my target. Well, here's the rub. See, I like to think of myself as FABULOUS (that's right, in ALL CAPS), but as it happens, reality likes to intervene on my inner monologue sometimes. On this night, it turned out the boys had an (may or may not have been pre-arranged) engagement with MTV2. So I am relegated to "maybe later, doll" category, as I am not in any way related to TV, let alone MTV, nor do I have a readership that comes anywhere near the numbers of viewers of MTV2. So from a marketing perspective, I totally understand this decision. From an irrational, wholly emotional "oi pricks" point of view, I have decided to hate on Boy Kill Boy for the rest of the night. They won't mind, because they won't know...they won't talk to me. Hmmmppphhh...but I'm not bitter. (NOTE: luckily, I am forgiving...and persistent, and stalked the boys via myspace -marvelous invention- and secured the "promise" of an interview at their show the next night, and therefore gave up my one girl anti-BKB campaign in favor of a story featured in a later article).

I went down to the bar to get a drink before The Rakes' set. I walked back up in search of my friends, and instead walked right back into those weird Scotsmen. Ugggghhhh, am I cursed? After an "oops I accidentally spilled my beer, must go get another..." (sorry, beer lovers, but it had to take one for the team) I went off in search of my friends again, and found them just in time for The Rakes. Ahhhhh finally. The Rakes burst onto the scene in a flaming ball of energy, or at least that’s how I felt. The music so quickly paced, one can not help but to start bouncing around in time with the band. The influence of Blur is evident in the rhythms, but The Rakes are slightly more rough around the edges. Where Blur was meticulous and very cleanly cut, The Rakes are brash and impulsive sounding. Though they seem the less polished version of Franz Ferdinand., it is not so easy to discount them. Yes, they are bunch of skinny Brit boys (which apparently is how the “skinny-as-rakes” boys got their name), but so are half the bands on the scene. Yes, each of their repertoires contains songs clocking in at over 100 beats per minute. Yes, the style and the sound are somewhat comparable. But we already knew there is nothing new under the sun. To make matters worse for the boys, I hear they are now on the Top Shop soundtrack. Well perhaps this is good for their income, but I fear now I will forever associate them with a desire to kill or maim the swarms of hyper-trendy girls blocking my way to the queue in the Oxford Street one.

Luckily, I liked them before all this, and liked them better after seeing them at the Bowery Ballroom. The dancing came back, insofar as hopping about and tossing drinks onstage is dancing. The set seemed to please the punters, if pleasure is shown by copious amounts of beer being flung about. The boys mucked through without so much as blinking an eye at the debris falling around them. I was surprised, I would have gone all DIVA-ish on the crowd if they started throwing bits and bobs at me, or at least thrown something bigger and badder back at them. The pulse-pounding beats knocked out by Lasse on drums, complemented the hard line bass of Jamie. Alan’s nasal vocals twang along with the slide-rule sound of Matthew’s guitar that connects the ever-changing focal points of the music. Alan stares crazily into the crowd, while blurting out the lyrics and clapping madly. It could just be his eyes, or perhaps there are drugs involved, but it gives him the look of a madman on the loose with a microphone at his disposal. Makes it all very exciting. They played "Terror," "Retreat," "All Too Human," "Strasbourg" as an encore, and with the prelude of some loser in the crowd-- "Yes sir, we will play '22 Grand Job.' Yes, sir I heard you the first time"-- they played that as well. Yes, it is all comparable to Franz Ferdinand, but I like Franz Ferdinand, so why shouldn’t I like The Rakes? I like the sound. I like the beat. I like dancing to it. I like drinking to it. I like listening to it. I like watching it. The boys on stage are the personification of their sound. Frantic kinetic energy held on a short leash. And I like it. Good on ya, boys!! Hope to see you next time around.

• Also visit this guy Chris and his Music Snobbery for some funny observations, and because he was nice enough to let me borrow some of his Towers pics