Black Lips played a pair of gratis shows yesterday in Seattle America. The first was an all ages gig at Easy Street Records in the lovely Queen Anne neighborhood where young teens gathered in the sweltering Sunday afternoon parking Lot and smoked cigarettes while goosing one another like adolescent scumbags will sometimes do. The second makeshift performance from the uncivilized outfit out of Atlanta was held at the new gay bar "Pony" on Capitol Hill, where every shitty hipster on the dying face of our overheated planet gathered in a room smaller than what should have been Scooter Libby's prison cell to discharge sleazy singles from their yet untitled VICE recording which all hands can cop on September 11. Never forget.
The majority of both complimentary sets released psycho-flower-punk-power anthems held hostage on Los Valientes Del Mondo Nuevo. The Easy Street show, where about fifty or so kiddos squeezed their sweaty summertime bods between aisles full of unsold Kelly Clarkson records, featured "Boomerang," "Not A Problem," "Dirty Hands," "Fairy Stories," "Hippie Hippie Hoorah," and the new single "Cold Hands."
The word of mouth in Seattle works faster than a rumor spread like the legs of Pam Anderson as the news of a free gig spun around the Capitol Hill cool scene, collecting fecal-breaths and tattooed-losers for a more steamy set, captured in the brick bowels of the hellish hang out formerly the Cha Cha Lounge, now Pony, which has rapidly become Seatle's most fucktastic new gay sex hole.
Slurrer/guitarist Cole Alexander and screamer/bassist Jared Willey competed with Carlos from Interpol for worst mustache of the year while Ian on the guitar shined his gold fronts as if he were Flavor Flav. This drunken party scene was blasted with a fresh selection of gritty bliss in the form of "MIA," "Everybody's Doing It," "Stranger," "Buried Alive," and "Bad Kids."
Cole Alexander spit and spit and spit into the air above his messy Jewish mane, filling the void of between song silence with random noises on his drum machine before grovel-yowling his way through another slovenly tune, smiling ever so slightly like Charles Manson upon hearing tapioca was the afternoon's prison desert. Jared Willey thanked Kelly-O from Seattle's cockiest piece of alternative trash The Stranger for setting up the fiesta and announced to all drunken sluts that the new record will come out on 9/11.
This was a very hot and gratuitously dumb afternoon spent with four brash wildcats from Atlanta GA. Many thanks to the malodorous men for stopping through the Pacific Northwest and I hope that they made enough cash from various donations buckets for ample gas, food, and lodging. I do like them icky kids, the cruddy whippersnappers from the dirty south whose bellicose guitars, smudged vocals, and intoxicated pov are the thundering reason for their popularity with rotten urchins around the trashy underworld.