Urine Artist Pt 1

No. I did not see Terrible Twos on Friday night. The dudes are still tall, genius and in total out-of-control. I don’t need the Blowout to tell me that. But the fact that you couldn’t move inside Small’s even 15 minutes after their set ended is encouraging in the big picture.

but first...

When you start your night by getting subtly forced out of “Tight Fittin’” Jeans during Last Tourist at 10 pm, the Blowout gods are smiling. So, even though Jean’s is a Blowout hinterlands joint – out by the sports bars and Wendy’s on Joseph Campau -- the constant influx of friends, fans and vagabonds makes for too cozy bedfellows. Yes, in the big picture, this is a good thing. The band themselves, in the metaphor of my evening’s running mate and Blowout virgin, Scott, defy gravity with the first few numbers we catch. By the time we’re squeezing ourselves out, they’ve found a dreamy, oft-dynamic ‘90s-lovin’ rock groove. There’s a lot to be said for that.

The bartender ladies ducked the usual pre-conceived truism that bartendresses should wear it tight and low. They, instead, opted for two-sizes-too-large sweatshirts. Hott!! One of ‘em even had light up pins where her nipples should be!

Knights of Columbus: Before consumer paralysis could strike, my trusty sidekick and I headed to the Knights of Columbus Hall to do a little re-con and gather thoughts. Karaoke ensued.

Childbite has the best collection of facial hair evar! OMG!M!@#!@#!!!

Four of the dudes have dark beards, thus making it appear that the merely mustachioed (and slighter-of-build) drummer was kidnapped, dragged into some single-wide and forced to propel the jams against his will. The sound was absolute mud. Just fucking awful. Still, Childbite’s guitars, sax and synth widgets attack shone through. Thank gawd. There was alotta hair flying around, alotta bulk to carry the momentum. And carry it they did. Balls out and well done new wave, punk blast bombast and sass. Bearded dudes with hands on their hips and their hips cocked.

We returned to the K of C lounge in time to catch the end of Lull Tucker’s set (adequate, but the program guide comparing him to Howe Gelb isn’t fair) and the resurgence of hipster karaoke roulette wherein the volunteer singer never knows what song they’ll tackle till the wheel stops spinning. We left during the host’s rendition of Toto’s “Africa.” It is still stuck in my head.

I must admit that this had something to do with my running mate and getting a little lost exiting the K of C and being escorted through the security room. I was only slightly alarmed to find out that there are multiple closed circuit TVs monitoring the action inside and outside the K of C at all times. And a very gracious dude running the observation hut. As my running mate so aptly put it “What kind of fun house is this?!”

[up next

Deastro. City Chicken. Solidarity and such]

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