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The Greatest

March 17, 2006


See, here's the one thing about rock and roll festivals: most of these bands are abjectly terrible. Irrelevant. No reedeeming musical value. Adding insult to injury, you have to see all of these jokers prancing around during daylight hours - you'll be sitting there trying to enjoy some pancakes and whatnot, and in comes a swarm of bad haircuts, ill-fitting blazers, and general airs of douchebaggery. Its enough to make you swear off six-stringers entirely. Fortunately, we still have the Secret Machines.




Thursday night at some far-flung spot DKNY JEANS rented out (our Santa Claus-looking cabbie said that Frank Zappa did a show that got real weird there years ago, the kind of apocryphal anecdote that always bodes well) the Machines played a set filled with neverending riffs, Fender Rhodes brilliance, and a full-on drum THWACK that reminded us why we liked going to shows in the first place. Can we talk about the drums for a minute? Just the drums. All we remember is Josh Garza beating the shit out of this gigantic kick (it was on some Barnum And Bailey level of oversized-ness). Nothing but kick drum. Ok, maybe some ride cymbal. Heavy. The Curtis brothers managed to tweak their guitar/bass/keys with enough effects pedals to juice the Rhode Island power grid. Also heavy. And the light show was the most basic-n-brilliant show of stroboscopics we've seen in some time.

We're sure there's going to be more than enough bullshit combos intruding into the rest of our week. We also know that humming "Nowhere Again" (while thinking about how the SMs just masterfully beat it into our brain through our earholes) is the best antidote anyone could ever prescribe.















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The Greatest