"Do you believe in Rapture babe?"

{All photos by Self H8ting Hipster.}

-- "Ah, your hair. Your hair is soft. It's like a girl's.

-- By God, it is soft.

-- Now how do you get it that way?

-- See, this old stuff of mine, it just -- Well, it's just like old barn hay. There ain't a durn thing you can do with it.

-- How do you -- How do you get it that way and keep it like that?

-- Just lucky, I guess.

-- [Men] Lucky. Yeah.

-- Oh, yeah.

-- Goddamn it. You keep your hand off of it.

-- I thought I told you not to touch me.

-- I don't give a good goddamn what you told me. You keep your hands off his hair!"

Yeah, just lucky I guess. I caught 7 remarkable sets by 7 different bands this weekend. In order of appearance:

Yeah Yeah Yeah's (McCarren ool)
Sonic Youth (Ibid.)
Django Reinhardt inspired jazz trio (At Fada)
Howard Fishman and Friends (Back on Bedford, just like olde timeys.)
Apollo Sunshine (McCarren ool)
Beirut (Ibid.)
Deerhoof (Ibid.)

Plus the weather was breezy and sublime, and nobody pulled up beside me in a van and detonated explosives. There's something more than a little eerie about how good we've been having it here this summer, but why rock the boat? Going along to get along.

Saturday was the second day of Sonic Youth and Yeah Yeah Yeahs at the ool. Leading up to this pair of shows, there had been some concern expressed here and elsewhere about the possibility of the Almighty Sonic Youth opening for the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. And when it was announced they'd be alternating headling slots on BV, there was some heated commentary. [sic] Samples:

"Sonic Youth opening for YYY. The apocolypse is upon us..."

"damn, im super gald i bought tix for saturday! now i can show up late and skip the blahblahblahs altogehter"

"And why all of this self-righteous indignation about the Yeah Yeah Yeahs when, the last time I checked, everyone still loved them, their new album, and (eternally) their live show? Oh I get it. They can sell out Roseland so naturally they must suck now. Jeez."

I'm good with them taking turns; it would have been weird for a three year old band to headline after quarter-century legends. I was glad I got the Saturday tickets if only for the thrill of seeing Sonic Youth under cover of darkness. It was supernatural.

We were about thirty yards from the stage, right in front of Thurston 'Fire-Vomit-Eating" Moore. The puke ignited with "Teen Age Riot", so I was putting the p back in the ool in no time. There were a number of songs off the new album such as "Incinerate", "Do You Believe in Rapture", "What a Waste". Older pinnacles included "100%" and "Rats".

Sonic Youth's set at Lollapalooza was described somewhere as "telepathic". True that and then some. What an extraordinary night crashing over our heads on that fresh August breeze. Take a song like "Rats". On the album, it's one I'm prone to skip on grounds of discordant dreariness. But live, I was mesmerized by Gordon's mad bow-work on the four-string.

I need mo mo mo So Nice. They are so connected on stage and - to torture the cliche - "in the moment" that it puts the zap on your head. One of the highest lights for me was "Or", the last song on the new album, (featuring a Doors "The End" inspired guitar riff from Lee Ranaldo) and lyrics that start with, "In your mouth a wad of cash. Moist roll of hundreds".

They seemed as pumped as us to be there in that abandoned Brooklyn pool. Thurston commented that while it was great seeing us around town on the streets it was also nice for "all of us to be here together." Toward curfew-time he noted that it was almost 10:00 and wondered where we'd go next.

By that point my head was bobbing somewhere off in the deep end. It sounded like this:

There were plans to head over to a party on North 8th but we were never made it past the phenomenal jazz trio playing in an undisclosed bistro on Driggs. It was the third amazing band of the weekend: bass, strange percussions and acoustic, Jango-influenced acoustic guitar. I intend to go back next Saturday to see them again and relive those glory days. (If you swing by, get the cheese plate!)

On my way back to the ool Sunday I caught some of Howard Fishman. I've seen him lots and lots of times at Barbez, Joe's Pub and Mo Pitkins. It was a kick to loiter on the sidewalk sharing the pleasant summer vibes, man. Basically the opposite of Iraq.

On to the pool. Strolled in just in time for Apollo Sunshine, who I had liked a lot when I saw them with Sam Champion at Southpaw. They're an upbeat power-trio that shreds wild blues-inflected rawk in the spirit of an avant-garde Creedence. Sweet three-part harmony vocals, blistering guitar work, relentless rhythm.

They poured out plenty of kool-aid and by the end my shirt was stained red. Also, Jesse Gallagher, the bassist, tossed a basketball into the crowd and made a human hoop with this arms. The first guy's free-throw went wide, the second shot wasn't even close. Then our eyes locked and Jesse tossed the ball to me. Nothing but net! A peak concert experience. He instructed everyone in the crowd to buy me a beer and I turned around to make sure everyone got a damn good look at my beer-hungry mug. Guess how many beers were given to me? Cheap fucking scenesters.

Between sets, Sir Questlovealot dropped more thick grooves, including "When the Levee Breaks" and "Bombs Over Baghdad". Thank You.

I was curious to see how Beirut's show had evolved since Movable Hype the Knitting Factory this Spring, when their set was bogged down by ukulele technical problems. Believe the hype. They flooded the pool with big waves of Soviet-era military marching band gypsy rock. I was close to the stage and didn't have the best acoustic vantage point; Zach Condon's trumpet was way up in the mix while the mandolin and cello were mostly lost. But these are quibbles; I really like them. And Zach's voice is gorgeous.

There were some lively (if just a little tone-deaf) stage antics on behalf of the keyboardist: he advocated group hugs and a made a stirring, ironic call to revolution against the condos going up all around the park. ("Free at last"?) It was pretty funny for the most part, but I think there needs to be a little band meeting about stage-hoggin'. (Or maybe he'd just gone one toke over the line; as Zach pointed out he was wearing a collared shirt with a hemp symbol where the crocodile would ordinarily be.)

Zach also noted that it was their first show with a beach ball bouncing through the crowd.

Could we possibly have a better afternoon? Oh yes.

You know, I forgot to mention that my day started with a knock on my door from my roommate, a very hairy fellow who had a favor to ask: would I be willing to shave the back of his neck in a completely metro-not-homo sexual context?

"Sure gaylord," I said and followed him into the bathroom, where he removed his shirt and exposed the thickest forest of back hair I'd ever seen. No exaggeration; I could not detect any point where the hair on his back ended and his flesh began. There was no pink to be seen, only a wild jungle of Italian-American wool. (I've been told that's 'un-p.c.' but I'm part Italian and technically American so I can make these jokes.)

So as I'm shaving the back of my friend's neck I got the strange but irresistable urge to reach into the black void of his back hair, just to make sure there was some boundry to the fur. But as I poked my finger into it, there was no back to be found. Just the hair. Reaching a little further, I still couldn't find solid mass.

Soon I was reaching my entire hand into his thick mass of hair without meeting any resistance. The awkward silence in the bathroom was unbearable, but there was no turning back. No choice but to keep going.

So I took a deep breath and stepped through into the hair, determined to find back. I was competely immersed in it, pushing through darkness and hot follicles in search of a way out.

Just as panic began to overwhelm me, your humble narrator passed through to the other side, into a sunny clearing. It was still summer and there was an abandoned Olympic size swimming pool in the distance. I approached and ascended the ladder to the high-dive, where a small, velvet-lined music box had been placed. Inside was a little band called Ddeeeeeeeerrhhooff.

Satomi Matsuzaki dances, twirls and coos in the center while playing a miniature bass. Greg Saunier tears a miniature drum set to shreds. (Even the cymbals have chunks bashed out of them; see Heart on a Stick's photos.) John Dieterich goes into epileptic trance on guitar. Everyone wins!

I jumped off the high-dive with them and I'm still waiting for the splash. That kind of weekend. I suppose at some point I'll have to rotate through the dark hairy back to the world. After all, The Dan's dropping anchor with some hot yacht rock at Jones Be-atch Thursday. (My oldest brother, Owen C. and I are going.)

Comments

[jen]

"I was curious to see how Beirut's show had evolved since Movable Hype this Spring"

um, beirut never played movable hype.

[LM]

don't you know that you should NEVER drink the Kool-Aid?

[Max]

Corrected. Thanks. KF shows blending together.

[self-h8ting hipster]

Sonic Youth really out-did themselves this time. Yet another rock'n'roll fantasy weekend to close out the summer...

PS: next time you should sugar (wax) that roomie's back...
BUNNYBUNNYBUNNYBUNNY-BUNNY--BUNNY

[Tracy]

Thank you....Now my summer is complete.
y-y-y-'s opening for sonic youth????? a generational crossroad or collision, I am not sure.
BACK HAIR re-entry visuals will be hanging with me for a while.....Ask you Nephew about BACK HAIR....the bigger little one{REDACTED} he is cursed too. Fotunately he has good friends as well.