Archive: March, 2010
|Feel free to thank us later.|
I have not seen Catch 21, hosted by Alfonso Ribeiro (aka, The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air's Carlton). It has been ages since I've seen an episode of seminal '70s game show Match Game. My only recent viewings of Password were on YouTube. I do not get to see a show that is actually titled Carnie Wilson Unstapled.
I do not have GSN: Game Show Network.
The life of a freelance writer allows me to watch a lot of game shows, and the choices on regular TV are slim: Jeopardy!, Price is Right, maybe a syndicated Millionaire. The only Family Feud host I can watch is John O'Hurley. My life is pretty rough, I know. But imagine how much better it would be if I could watch Family Feud as hosted by Gene Rayburn, Ray Combs or Richard Karn. I have, and it is a bright possible future.
I complain so much about not having Game Show Network primarily because my parents, who live in the Far Northeast (also Comcast subscribers), get GSN. They even get it on the same channel 57 I watched GSN on when it first debuted in our cable lineup when it replaced SportsChannel Philadelphia in 1997.
Look, this isn't just about my desire to watch more game shows than I already do. There is a real purpose. When I was in high school, I saw an episode of Match Game where I swear the following happened: There was a question about a fictional German man, and one of the celebrity panelists drew a swastika on his card, put it on his arm and paraded around like a Nazi. I need to watch reruns of Match Game in the hope of confirming the existence of this moment.
Not content to just stew, I actually contacted Comcast's PR department to find out why, exactly, I don't get the Game Show Network. Partway through my conversation with the company's PR department, I got this bombshell news: As part of ongoing Comcast upgrades, Center City Comcast customers will have Game Show Network next month! Did you hear that? That's the sound of yours truly effecting more positive change for Philadelphia with this article than I ever have before.
A Comcast PR person explained: Thanks to Comcast's series of acquisitions of former cable companies (and probably demographic reasons), parts of the city have slightly different channel line-ups. Comcast's ongoing "World of More" upgrade is phasing out analog signals for all but a handful of channels. This upgrade, also hilariously called "xfinitizing" an area, recently gave Comcast's customers in Center City a block of HD channels in the 800s. Sadly, my parents don't get to watch Kendra in HD. They're crushed. Comcast will be rolling (xfinitizing?) out 35 to 53 new HD channels to customers sometime soon.
But most importantly, we'll be getting Game Show Network. Comcast hasn't made me this happy since the 2001 Sixers.
As if cramming into Kung Fu Necktie Wednesday night won't be challenging enough, Icelandic septet Seabear, touring in support of their excellent faerie/creepy new record We Built a Fire on fav-label Morr Music (<3<3<3), will limber up by jamming into tiny boutique/gallery Art in the Age (116 North 3rd Street, 215.922.2600) for a free 1:30 p.m. in-store performance.
Get there early; leave smelling of Root.
RELATED >> We Built a Fire reviewed
Every Tuesday, Critical Mass pokes around the art blog world so you don't have to.
I played the harp when I was young. Sure the thing now gathers dust and is probably untuneable but I swear I was going to pick it up again and be the next indie-songstress ... until I saw Make Major Move's photos of pretty lil' Joanna Newsom at the first Unitarian Church. Bitch stole my future shtick. Good thing our own Tom Tiballi has his own Newsom review.
No one wanted to be Jessie when we played Saved by the Bell as youts, but she sure has left an indelible mark on '90s TV. Shmitten Kitten's found what may be the best caffeinated-Spano mash-up to ever exist. "I'm so excited ... I'm so ... SCARED."
According to his interview with Print Liberation: Andrew Suggs has a strong aversion to cats and dogs, a thing for Sandra Bernhard, and dreams of playing with My Little Pony. He also curates Vox Populi. And I would totally want to be Andrew Suggs friend, if I didn't have to leave the room every time Sarah McLachlan's SPCA commercial comes on.
Free People found a site that rethinks blogging. Instead of relying on her keyboard, artist Iviva Olenick posts photos of her handstiched messages. So now instead of typing a vague, but still pointed poem about her ex she can just sew it into an old t-shirt. Pretty rad.
Need to find a present for that friend who always gets you the most unique things? HandmadeinPA has a roundup of great Philly places to pick up some artsy-fartsy, one-of-a-kind swag. Chances are, you could even out-gift her. Boochashakah.
City Paper welcomes guest Critical Mass columnist Jonathan Wallis, assistant professor of art history at Moore College of Art and Design. His column, "Perspective," runs monthly in this space, bringing a critical eye to a visual art scene that continues to thrive in Philadelphia. Questions? E-mail Wallis at email@example.com.
|Photo | Bijoux Altamirano | voxpopuligallery.org
|The Voluptuous Horror of Karen Black, performance documentation, Kembra Pfahler
"Got my own world to live through, and I ain't gonna copy you."
Jimi Hendrix, "If 6 was 9"
"Dead Flowers," the current show at Vox Populi, pays tribute to eccentric American actor/director Timothy Carey, whose pioneering independent film production and insistence on preserving artistic integrity at the expense of popular "success" is familiar to those steeped in alternative cinema.
Curated by Lisa Gangitano, founder of the nonprofit alternative art space on Manhattan's Lower East Side, Participant Inc., "Dead Flowers" exemplifies her commitment to interdisciplinary and intergenerational exhibitions (the show will move to Gangitano's venue in NYC in early May), and explores the strategies, responses and resistances of artists to dominant culture and mainstream ideology over the last four decades. Starting from the concept of "the underground" as a site of alternative cinematic expression with Carey's highly controversial film, The World's Greatest Sinner (1962), the show meanders through various decades and media, suggesting a complex course of assimilations, mutations and contradictions that illuminate its fascinating, yet difficult, persistence.
Ephemera and a video documentary segment introduce viewers to the protagonist in the lobby, where photographs, movie stills and articles, as well as comments by Carey's brother, present the man with the triangle goatee as a radicalized, self-driven social and artistic rebel. Adjacent to these materials is the first of several "intergenerational" juxtapositions; the infamous penis and breast casts of Cynthia Plaster Caster (yes, Jimi Hendrix is there) next to display cases filled with collages by contemporary Swiss artist Georg Gatsas. In one, Gatsas displays photographs and descriptions of Dubstep music subculture along with several pages of text discussing Julian Henriques' notion of "sonic dominance," an experience of sensory "hierarchy" via audio stimulus matching the distinct bass power of Dubstep music. This collage/visual essay is one of the more easily intelligible works related to the show's theme.
In another gallery, Paul Thek's Meat Cable (1968-69) crosses paths with work by individuals and collaboratives that are less familiar to mainstream art culture. One example, and a visual highlight of the show, is the work of African-American photographer Alvin Baltrop (who passed away in 2004). Documenting the sexual adventures and fringe lifestyle along a notorious set of New York City piers in the 1970s and 1980s, Baltrop attempted unsuccessfully to get his work accepted into galleries in New York City. Encountering resistance from all sides, he nevertheless continued to take photographs (the extent of his oeuvre is yet to be printed from his negatives) and has only recently been acknowledged by the public art world.
Genesis Breyer P-Orridge's double/single portrait, Red Chair Posed (2008), left me stumped (I misinterpreted it as a Nan Goldin-style "personal documentary photograph") when I viewed it. Only later did I learn its fascinating significance as a self-portrait of a single Artist, composed of "two gender variant activists and performance artists," Genesis and now-deceased Lady Jaye, in a Pandrogyne. In the next gallery, photographs of Kembra Pfahler and her female bandmates from subversive performance/glam rock act The Voluptuous Horror of Karen Black confront viewers as pink, yellow, blue and red nudes captured photographically in bizarre, sexually provocative positions that look like planet Pandora gone porno.
In the far back room, two videos by Charles Atlas present masked and costumed human heads that combine hypnotizing, slow physical movement and vocals with fetishistic masks and cyborg-like facial alterations (unless I am mistaken, one features Johanna Constantine, a one-time member of The Blacklips Performance Cult). Atlas, whose work was included in the 2008 Whitney Biennial, is known for the genre of media-dance where performative dance actions come to viewers via video. His works in this show evoke desires and conflicts with restraint, in mesmerizing repetitive gestures or poses.
Works by Marti Domination (of Matthew Barney Cremaster fame), Tabboo! and Scott Ewalt in the adjacent hallway and neighboring gallery are more lackluster; the paintings, prints and ephemera are just not that conceptually provocative or visually interesting. Too much empty wall space in this room compounds the issue and detracts from the works' reception.
The majority of work in "Dead Flowers" is New York-based, and I was surprised by the fact that not one Philadelphia-based artist was included in the show (and with some empty wall space to boot). Since "Dead Flowers" will be on display in both Philadelphia and New York, why not include some local examples of "alternative/underground artists" from recent decades and/or the present day, at least in its Philadelphia venue? We've got an underground tradition, too, and for a show weighted strongly toward issues of gender and sexuality, Philadelphia could easily provide counterpoints to New York City that might make the show more intimately attached to its first site while also providing a dialogue about the different manifestations of particular undergrounds between the two cities.
There are, nevertheless, fascinating layers to the artists included in "Dead Flowers." But their biographies, influences and artistic philosophies are not communicated or represented as well as they could be, and I'm not quite sure what Gangitano is aiming at by putting these specific artists together. In addition to the general curatorial statement about Carey and the concept of the underground in art, a short handout containing brief individual bios and descriptions/discussions of the works in the show would have enhanced and improved the comprehension of the themes explored; especially when not only the work itself but also much of its cultural references may be unfamiliar to more "mainstream" art audiences. After all, it is a show about underground activity, and while many of the artists now participate in the dominant art world, that by no means suggests their work and personal motivations are de facto easily legible and/or accessible.
And, while the show's nexus is Timothy Carey, other artists included in the show acknowledge a range of alternative art movements and individuals as having a significant impact on their processes, among them Dada, Surrealism, William Burroughs, John Cage and Hermann Nitsch. I would like to know how Carey might be framed within this broader tradition and history, as well. Vox Populi and Participant Inc. have scheduled a number of performances by artists in the show and screenings of Carey's films in April, and perhaps these events will bring a new dynamic and greater depth to certain aspects of the show's themes and work.
Despite this lack of information, the interdisciplinary and intergenerational approach to "Dead Flowers" raises provocative questions about the changing and conflicting notions of art and its relationship to dominant culture in recent decades. This, more so than the art in it, is what gives the show its charge. It offers the viewer an opportunity to reflect critically on concepts of the underground and their changing dynamics in recent and contemporary art, largely within the boundaries of a New York City art culture.
And it raises a set of very interesting critical questions: To what extent and to what purpose can art be autonomous today, and how has this shifted and mutated over the last few decades? How do artists work against or with various popular media? What results when alternative practices "enter" the dominant culture of art? Do they become absorbed into an exploitative system? When did these works "enter" and why (or are they still in the process of entering now)? Have these artists entered of their own accord or through the work of subsequent individuals? If the latter, what motivated them? How are subcultures driven and shaped by the very cultures they are reacting against? What are the effects of marking work with these labels? I don't know the answers to these questions, but I do know that I can buy an official "Plaster Caster T-shirt" from Cynthia Plaster Caster on her Web site. Is that "success?"
PREVIOUSLY >> PERSPECTIVE: "Onward" at Project Basho
|photos | Patrick Rapa|
For the first three days of the SXSW music fest, Austin was sunny and 65 and breezy and people tied their hoodies around their waists and walked around eating cupcakes from the cupcake truck and yay. Saturday some kind of switch was flipped and it was windy and 40 and everybody wore everything they had. Seems like every other venue in Austin has an outdoor patio component. Most of the time this is awesome. Poor Red Cortez, whoever they were, rocking out for a depleted and shivering crowd on a big outdoor stage next to a ice chest full of free Vitamin Water. A banner advertised Music180 which, I don't know what that is, but it summed things up nicely. Just a day earlier, this woulda been a decent show. Same with the stripped-down version Athlete and co. freezing their asses off down at the Cedar Street Courtyard.
Goner Records had a showcase so I checked out CoCoComa (good stuff, bought some CDs) and Magic Kids. After these poppy, smart bands but I think I was itching for something stupid and loud. Enter Witchburn, from Seattle. Wow. Just heavy, metal-punk guitars, drummer twirling sticks, singer laying it all fucking out there. I wanna say Janis Joplin meets Motorhead. Warmed me up for a second.
Dinner with friends ran a little late sat at a table and using utensils for the first time on the trip. Austin = mostly street food so I missed Titus Andronicus. Dammit. They're from Jerz so I can catch 'em back home probably. But dammit. That album is so good. Had a second Craig Finn sighting. To console myself I went and saw Best Coast again. Hey, I'm on vacation. Singer Bethany Cosentino apologized for her voice being kinda shot "that's what happens with you play 10 shows in 5 fuckin days" but they still rocked. Liked her voice even better with the grit. Dammit they need to put out an album already. After that I decided to head back to the comedy club. Caught Kristen Schaal doing a duo thing with Kurt Braunohler. It was really strange, and a slow build, but ended up really working.
|Kristen Schaal and Kurt Braunohler|
At the end of the night, I had to make a decision: Slow Club or Japandroids? Catchy, pretty British pop rock? Or catchy, athletic American rock-rock? Both have put out albums that can rule my iPod for days at a time. Eventually, I chose the rarer treat: Slow Club. Rocked way more than I expected. Bottles broke, drunk girls swayed, sing-alongs got sung along to, heavenly.
|Slow Club again|
|Director James L. Brooks|
With "How Do You Know," incentives from Pennsylvania and the District of Columbia helped pay for a relatively expensive enterprise Columbia executives declined to provide a budget figure whose release on Dec. 17 will test the audience appetite for story-driven, star-heavy films.See, backwoods PA State Reps!: If you take away our film tax credit, Hollywood will fall apart
We told you about the Philadelphia Beard and Moustache Competition at Studio 34 this past weekend. But Greg P was kind enough to let us post his excellent portraits of the contestants. Calamity Rose is a clear favorite but John Buckler is a close second. You can see more of Greg P's photos on his personal site or his Flickr site.
At 8:45, The Moore Brothers moseyed onto a tiny stage in the First Unitarian Church that definitely has featured kindergarteners gussied up as sheep, shepherds, wise men and angels at some point in its storied past. These guys were weird and intense from square one, but it was cut with some serious Simon-meets-Garfunkely vocals and seemed so genuine that opening with an a capella Irish-ish verse about what sounded a lot like date-rape was met with warm laughter and applause. The duo was charming and funny, trading off their guitar on songs and working in lyrical quips about having a girlfriend that watches too much Dexter. With harmonies as easy to get caught up in as these two conjured, I'm sure she doesn't even notice.
There was about an hour lull between acts, and with the room lit with chandeliers and two Penn freshmen on the most asinine date of all time in the pew behind me, I took the time to check out my surroundings. There is no hierarchy of cool at a Joanna Newsom concert, just a whole bunch of different ties, knobby knees peaking from underneath home-made summer dresses, bangs, diadems, boots, tights, greasy dorm-hair and baby faces coming together in a beautiful place. Bra-less neo-hip-hippies lounged in the aisles of the old church, offering their bottles of wine to those deep in conversation with them. As the wait got longer, a few cramped up front sitting Indian-style actually started doing yoga. My beard must have grown an inch before the lights dimmed and Joanna and the Y's Street Band emerged on the little stage.
The place fell completely silent through Newsom's entire set, and the din of applause following each song was a caustic interlude between Joanna's gentle cooing and cawing. The church was built for her group, a pastiche of violins, recorders, trombones, softly rolling cymbals, Fender Telecasters and of course, a harp. Drawing most of her set from 2010's Have One On Me, Ms. Newsom combined the intricacy, spellbinding orchestration and vocals of 2006's Ys with the pop sensibilities of her earlier work. With a nod of her head or tap of her golden-glittering boot, the Ys Street band erupted into a howling exclamation of her cries, or abated in a subdued punctuation of her softly strummed harp.
Older songs, along with the new, were met with loving recognition, especially "Inflammatory Writ" and "Book of Right-On." These songs were originally recorded with minimal accompaniment, prior to the formation of the Ys Street Band, and the live incarnations were experimental forays into Newsom's ever sophisticating sound, with dynamic pops, thick vocalized harmonies and new enunciations on lyrics dear to most of us for a long time now. After the live premiere of "Good Intentions Paving Company," which was nothing short of spectacular, a pedal on the mammoth harp broke, and a last minute closer was introduced. Halfway through a re-imagined version of "Peach Plum Pear," I was lost in myself. It is a real heart-breaker, and considering the stark silence it cast over the audience, I wasn't alone in having adopted it as such for the past few years.
It quickly turned into a long standing ovation after Newsom's hands strummed the last heart-string, and not long after she returned for her encore. After an impromptu version of "Happy Birthday" sung to one of her violinists, courtesy of the entire house, we were taken out with a feather-soft and grating "Baby Birch," and ushered out 15 minutes later on a wave of feedback and percussive snaps still ringing through the hall.
Joanna Newsom Setlist:
- Have One on Me
- Inflammatory Writ
- No Provenance
- The Book of Right-On
- Soft as Chalk
- Good Intentions Paving Company
- Peach, Plum, Pear
- Happy Birthday
- Baby Birch
A concert a day keeps the doctor away.
Monday: Repetition is enjoyable from time to time. It reminds us of the monotony of life and the comforts we find in consistency. My Disco embody that in their echoing beats and minimal lyrics. Performing with them will be the jangly, gritty garage fun-for-all locals Philadelphia Parking Authority. With The Phantom Family Halo, We Thieves! and Philadelphia Parking Authority, $10, 8 p.m., Kung Fu Necktie, 1250 N. Front St., 215-291-4919.
Tuesday: I hate to send you right back to the same place, but tonight it's well worth it. Hit up Kung Fu Necktie again and get an earful of Surf City, a band who surprisingly does not come from Surf City, New Jersey, nor do they produce surf rock tunes. The tricky bastards are actually from New Zealand and they're making semi-psychedelic summer tunes pushed by guitars and far away vocals. This is summer mix tape-making music. With Bachelorette, $10, 8 p.m., Kung Fu Necktie, 1250 N. Front St., 215-291-4919.
Wednesday: An American Chinese makes people wanna clap their hands and shake their hips. Not in a cheesy, sing-along way, but in a holy shit I can't stop this kind of way. They use acoustic guitars like drums, the pounding of strings becomes a form of percussion. And the male vocals are reminiscent of early White Stripes, only more fluid than gentleman Jack. With Cheers Elephant, Horse's Mouth, and The Bee Team, $10, 9 p.m., Johnny Brenda's, 1201 N. Frankford Ave., 215-739-9684.
Thursday: If rapper Wiz Khalifa refers to his Pittsburgh hometown as "Pistolvania" on his MySpace, you know whatever he's spitting on his tracks is going to be good. His songs cover the typical hip-hop topics: money, cars, ladies and livin' the good life everyday. But beyond typical, he's got some strong beats and he references Dinah Washington's "Is You Is or Is You Ain't My Baby" when he asks, "so tell me if you is or if you isn't with it." Not to mention he's got a love for this great state and our sister city. With Yelawolf, $15, 8 p.m., The Note, 142 E. Market St., West Chester, 800-594-8499,.
Friday: Oh, hey Jello, you're back. As soon as Jello Biafra starts singing there's a sea of spines with chills running up them. Former Dead Kennedys singer, spoken word extraordinaire, Green Party member and anarchist professor of punk rock, JB is with the Guantanamo School of Medicine and making Dead Kennedys-ish music with lyrics that pertain to today's global issues. The lyrics are even scarier than they were 30 years ago. With Witch Hunt, Common Enemy, and Mirrors and Wires, $14, 7:30, the Troc, 1003 Arch St., 215-922-5483.
Saturday: Experimental can be so many things, but it tends to go one of two ways: A harder, brasher, rough-around-the-edges way, or a sweet, airy, pretty-as-can-be way. Favoring the latter, Philly locals and keyboard enthusiasts Urban Giants will be at the Fire tonight with their lovely experimental sounds. With McRad, Firm Taqtics, Turning Violet Violet and Like Bells, $7, 8 p.m., Fire, 412 W. Girard Ave., 267-671-9298.
Sunday: Catchy as hell DIY-ers Killola bring their high-energy-wild-child-girl vocals and churning guitars. Embrace the fishy weirdness and the stiletto-in-your-eye attitude. With Sick of Sarah, Ganto Barn and Mother Fletcher, $8, 8 p.m., M Room, 15 W. Girad Ave., 215-739-5577.
|photos | Patrick Rapa
Got behind in posting these, but... Friday was the day I realized I just couldn't stand there listening to any old thing just cause the singer's up their pouring his heart out or the drummer in sweating herself silly. Time to get discriminating. So I stopped by some outdoor tent where the food was free (pulled pork on untoasted Texas toast) and the music was ignorable (an r&b dude from Barbados, I think). Soon as I was done I bolted for Sixth Street. Hesta Prynn formerly of Northern State was kinda fun. She didn't sound like a Beastie Girl, just good kinda soully rock pop hip-hop. A little more wandering and I found a showcase of Danish bands at a Mexican restaurant. If you have the chance to see Asteroids Galaxy Tour in a nice breezy outdoor patio with plastic Danish flags flapping and everybody else there is pretty and sunburnt in the Scandinavian tradition, I highly suggestion you do so. They played a little Miles Davis and a lot of party soul music. Yes.
Next I caught Philly ex-pat Matt Pond and the band currently going by Matt Pond PA. His voice is as strong as ever. If you haven't been keeping up with him/them in a while, check out the new, cinematic The Dark Leaves. The audience sang along with the ones they knew and danced to the ones they didn't.
Needing a break from the sun and trudging, I headed over to the Convention Center, the SXSW hub, to recharge the phone. The map/Google Latitude app is neat but it's a Droid vampire and kind of unnecessary in Austin. Once you grasp that there are East streets and West streets, you can feel your way from one club to another pretty easily. While I flipped through the program do I really wanna sit through a Jakob Dylan show just because Neko Case is in his band? No. Gwar came stomping by, preceded by cameras and pursued by a small gaggle of gawkers. "They're doing a panel in Room 18ABC," somebody told me as I snapped a photo. I'm not sure if she works for Gwar or just wants to.
Okay, who was next? Some crappy pop stuff and then Drunkdriver who did a crazy 20-minute jackhammering punk show. Just really intense, seamless rock. Dancing was attempted, but it soon mutated into headbanging and pushing. After the last note, a fellow reveler emrged from the mini-pit, retrieved her photo and camera from atop a monitor and muttered "Fucking big ass pussies." I am not sure what that was about.
I think this is when I saw Best Coast. A couple journalist types I ran into, SXSW veterans, have noted to me that there's no it-band or buzz band or whatever barf term. Fine, but if you missed Best Coast, you missed out. Really delivered. Ida Maria fans will like them. Or, this one did, anyway. Brash catchy, rock and roll.
A couple more bands and I stumbled into a comedy club to see Scott Aukerman host of the Comedy Death Ray podcast. I find the thing both funny and bafflingly straight-ahead. Andi Smith and Eugene Mirman came on a little later. These 10-15 minute sets seem to be a little rough on the comedians but Mirman hit the ground running and so made the most of his time.
Okay, enough funny business. I pushed my way into the Pocahaunted show. They are a kinda of a L.A. post-freak-folk thing funny to think Bethany Cosentino of Best Coast in this band, but she was with painted faces and swirling drones and a little psychedelic noodling. Well, the guitar and drum dudes were really holding down the back end while the three female singers abandoned their instruments to writhe and moan all over the place. Intense stuff in a packed house.
More intense in a house more packed was the Hole "comeback" show at a North Star-sized place called Dirty Dog. Before them was Foxy Shazam, one of those bands with awful facial hair and yappy between-song banter that is basically daring you to hate them. But then they rock out and it's good enough to put up with them. Quoth the Sonny Bono-looking lead singer: "If Foxy Shazam was an animal at the zoo, we'd be the one most likely to bite your head off without thinking about it." And: "Let's slow this last part down for all the ladies and the gay guys." I am not sure what that was about. Dude was a hilarious idiot.
Okay, so Hole. Back with an all new band (hi, Axl) Courtney Love's between-song asides could be divided thusly: A) Who she is doing this for. (Not you. This is for her. Except "Doll Parts" that was for you, you were told.) B) What is wrong with her voice. (It is extra raspy from smoking/hotel air conditioning/guitarists playing too loud.) Oh, there was also C) Perez Hilton's my BFF and I'll never cross him again. Oh while we're on the topic sort of, Nardwuar the Human Serviette was there, as was Matthew McConaughey who I first recognized by hearing him tap me on the shoulder and say "Can I get through, brother?" I think he said brother. He did stumble over my backpack.
"It's one fucking a.m. I'm an elderly person. Time to get my fucking blowjob on and go to sleep." That's a lot of what Love had to say. Somebody told me later she ended the show by collapsing, and had to be carried off the stage. Did that happen? How could I have missed that?
But the music, I'll tell you, Courtney/they sounded good. Like, she could stand there and complain like some dumpster diva but I really dug her sandpaper voice. It sounded raw and agonizing. Somehow it was a really good time. It's not 1995, and this wasn't Hole, and on and on, but it was a fun rock show. I'll give Courtney the last word: "Worst show of my life. Good night. Go see a good blues band."
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