Riddle me this: how does one Saturday night get filled with whiskey, baby-making music, and me committing minor theft, all jam-packed within three hours? It’s nights like this I fall even more in love with my city…
The daytime found me switching apartments: after schlepping my gigantic book and record collections up two flights of stairs and eating some delicious Taco Bell fiesta potatoes, I was ready to dance my tail off after moving for the majority of the day. I didn’t even shower and headed straight to Slim’s to see Does It Offend You, Yeah? after moving the last of my boxes.
Unfortunately for me, the band was in their last three songs. The sheer lunacy I was witnessing being behind a mosh pit and watching Morgan Quaintance screech out “With A Heavy Heart (I Regret To Inform You)” made me wish I had gotten up just an hour extra to begin moving: the throaty vocals and dirty bass line caused a huge raucous, while Horrors-inspired “Attack Of The 60 Ft. Lesbian Octopus” found everyone around me spazzing out. But it was closer “We Are Rockstars” I found myself in trouble: Quaintance pointed to a sign above the backstage door that said “No stage diving” and declared loudly “Fuck that sign!” before launching into “Rockstar.” And while I admit the lyrics are a little on the simple side (“Where’s your real friends now?/You have let them down/You’re a download pal”), that yelp of a “Yeah!” at the end triggered the biggest explosion of dance in my pants I have not seen in a long time. Live, the band is even more smutty and seductive in their electronic arrangement, serving up hot jams on a knob-twiddling platter full of deep bass lines, sexy synth, and incredible rhythm. I’m pretty sure those 20 minutes were probably the best ones of my month.
After catching my breath, I ran home to take a proper shower; after all, I was due to be in the company of some Playboy bunnies. The magazine was sponsoring an event called Rock The Rabbit at Mezzanine, a new fusion partnership of music and boobs, as far as I could tell. When we stepped inside, I was assaulted by the bunny logo at every turn; candles, projection cutouts, postcards, T-shirts. Enlargements of past, various Playboy editions graced the walls, but to be honest, I was surprised not more nudity was around. I spotted two women in the iconic get-up of the corset and bunny ears, and wondered how much they had been hassled by the very drunk crowd to get them to “take it off.”
But the spotlight was on U.K. outfit The Heavy, who was playing the event and who I am convinced are the soulful brothers of The Black Keys, complete with bluesy guitars, bass arrangements and a singer equipped with a voice to make the ladies do anything with him. It’s a nervy band who aren’t afraid to embrace funk and rock, soul and a tinge of R&B, for a bold statement in how to engage in some merrymaking and debauchery in the classiest way possible. Tracks like “That Kind Of Man” and “Coleen” find trumpets punctuating the dance party, announcing its presence in indie royalty, while “Girl” has this killer bass hook reminiscent to The Doors “Hello, I Love You.” I started out with tapping my toes and slinking a drink back in my right hand, and by the end of The Heavy’s set, I was double-fisting whiskey and ginger ales, had put my dancing shoes on, and was hugging and kissing everyone I knew in my general vicinity.
What the fuck, The Heavy? How did you get a hold on me?
Needless to say, we danced the rest of the night away, but not before I decided it was a fantastic idea to stuff some Playboy swag away for later. In my dress. I awoke the next morning with a candle in my bra and a headache in my skull to the highest extend. Fritos and bean dip cured my hangover before I faced the responsibility of Sunday, and before the memory of last night faded into epicness.