By barry on Fri, Sep 21, 2007 6:42 pm
The Suicide Girls paradigm has ascended to the next level. If kids like pin-up girls who are thinking about killing themselves, then they'll fucking love dead pin-up girls, right?! ... Uh ... Pin-up girls who look dead, I mean. Legitimately dead pinup girls would be very wrong.
It's super cool that the Cadaver Girls aren't really dead, 'cause if they were, they wouldn't be able to throw a bangin' party at the Milky Way this Sunday, marking the release of their necrophiliastic calendar. Now you can can ogle giggly macabre glamour shots (some taken as far away as Europe and California), then find out what day it is.
The psychobilly and surf-punk stylings of Gein and the GraveRobbers, Pulp 45, and Hotrod Fury are scheduled to provide the evening's requisite rawk, and there's gonna be a booth where you can get a Polaroid taken with a real-probably-live cadaver girl. A picture might sound like a cute souvenir, but thirty seconds in an enclosed area with one of these women gives them an ample opportunity to eat your brain, if they turn out to be zombies.
[Cadaver Girls Calendar Release Party, featuring Gein & the GraveRobbers, Pulp 45, and Hotrod Fury. Sunday, 9.23.07 at the Milky Way, 403-405 Centre St., Jamaica Plain, 8PM/21+/$7. cadavergirls.com, milkywayjp.com]
By barry on Tue, Aug 14, 2007 11:20 am
I had to constantly remind myself I wasn’t in Quincy during the WBCN
Band Camp at the Fleet Boston Pavilion. The yah-doodery was abundant, but I was
thankfully spared a “Yankees suck” chant. T’was an evening to soak in vanilla
rock, chug $9 beers, cop a signed portrait and/or feel off a real live Playboy
Playmate, and sign up for the Marines. Masochists read on.
Township –This
year’s Rock ‘n Roll Rumble winners were rewarded with the 5:30PM slot on the bill. As they doubtlessly
performed their hearts out, I was in the parking lot drinking free Monster and
trying to find someone to take my extra ticket.
Black Rebel
Motorcycle Club – Remember the time you got dragged to see your friend’s step-dad’s
mid-life crisis band? Remember how badly they wanted to be early 90s Tom Petty,
or, ugh, Don Henley, but mostly sounded like Blaze of Glory era Jon Bon Jovi? BRMC was like that, except 15
people were super stoked to see them.
The Bravery – As
I sat dutifully scribbling notes, a hysterical young woman collapsed into the
chair adjacent to mine, invading my personal bubble, and began wailing non-sequiturs
into my ear canal. Between fits of sobbing and laughter, she explained that her
boyfriend lacked a ticket to this, the front section. This simply would not do,
so she was requesting to borrow my ticket for his entry. To guarantee my
ticket’s safe return, she left me her ATM card as collateral.
Let’s review. By her own initiative, this person gave her
ATM card to a stranger. Who looks like me. In a huge crowd, into which I
could’ve easily vanished. The morally responsible thing would’ve been to flee
the scene and use her trust fund to pay off my student loans. Otherwise, how
will she ever learn what happens? She retained access to her bank account, only
because I am the nicest person of all time.
The Bravery sucks.
Satellite Party –Watching
the skeletal, leathery slab of humanity that is Perry Farrell, as he slithered
around dressed like an e-tarded candy raver, was akin to watching someone’s
grandpa have an ugly Alzheimer’s episode. Farrell’s 48, and the years have been
downright savage. I first thought SP’s go-go dancer was a strategic addition to
the band, to distract from Farrell’s cringe-inducing aura. Wikipedia informs me
she’s actually his wife, Etty Lau Farrell. Cute, except it means nobody in the
Satellite Party organization understands the problem with their central member being
a creepy, creepy old man.
The hits kept on coming. Despite being a new band with hypothetical
new songs, SP wasted most of their set on moldy ole Jane’s Addiction crowd
pleasers. Perhaps this adequately pleased the crowd, but I did NOT ask to hear
“Been Caught Stealing” for the 6,297,941st time. I didn’t ask to
hear it the time before that, either. In fact, I’ve never asked to hear it.
“We’ve done plenty of fucking on this tour!” Farrell
announced. Unless I punch myself in the brain hard enough to unhear that, I
won’t be able to masturbate for two months. Thanks, Perry.
Incubus – By the
time the headliners took the stage, my attention span had long since expired,
and I struggled to feign journalistic curiosity in a band I couldn’t care less
about. The rest of the audience bust a collective nut. Many bounced in place,
and seemed to enjoy themselves. Overall, aside from their obligatory radio power
ballads (The one where the chorus goes “Aaaaaaye wish you were here,” the other
one that goes “Whatever tomorrow brings, I’ll something something”), and some
depressingly white attempts at funk, Incubus resembled a kinder, gentler A Perfect Circle. And
APC is a kinder, gentler Tool, circa 1996. Interesting, that a band with
purported innovative aspiration, like Incubus, is actually the same ole watery
drek.
Most noteworthy discovery of the evening: Adolfo pulls a
reasonable caliber of groupie, leading me to speculate, is he just pretending
to be retarded for the pity sex?
