PrettyFakes

Skip to the parking lot after work; beg off XYZ on the phone. “I want to see Band of Horses tomorrow night with y’all but I’ve been in love with the Gossip for years but I’ve never seen them, and Baton Rouge is just too close not to go. Hola!”

Flashback: 2000: Dr. Wagner is living in Atlanta, Little Five Points, flooded with Blue Ribbon and drawing sketches of passengers on the MARTA: “Gorj, have you heard of this band, the Gossip? They’re on Kill Rock Stars, I know you dig that, they’re doing an in-store at Criminal Records.” “Hell, it’ll be worth it for free.”

Next day: “Dude. No way. They played ‘Hound Dog’ and said ‘This isn’t an Elvis Presley song, this is a Big Mama Thornton song!!”

SACRILIEGE

Yet we are intrigued. And sometime after that—I’m not quite sure when—I begin to buy their records, and then one day fold two five-dollar bills into an an envelope and mail it to Portland; two weeks later get back a one-and-half inch wide black leather bracelet with “the gossip” written in pink cursive.

On the drive to Baton Rouge—dammit, missed the exit for DELICIOUS 32 OZ. PINA COLADA DAQUIRIS—who cares, running late, already dark, missing ANTM introduction. Make it to Prof. + Contessa. They’re having an ATNM party—with blueberry pancakes and mimosas! Just like growing up! I am jittery and excited about the show.

Cue a bunch of kids all changing into their “going out” clothes; yes, I go scorpion. Also cue standing in line at an ATM in a gas station; and: I will never get over seeing liquor in a gas station, never ever. [I do not yet have a Roll Call in place because one of the greatest parts of the internets is christening oneself something tremendous: feel free to name thyselves].

We make it to the Spanish Moon, and it is beautiful: Jaxxonians, imagine a larger, cleaner, indie rock George St. Grocery. Also, our bartender is beautiful. Also, the Woodchuck on tap is beautiful. Actually, the bartender, she really is beautiful.

There are seventeen thousand opening bands and I have decided this will be the greatest night of all time.

Q: Why they spell it “Goxxip” sometimes?
A: Because that’s how you spell it in rock and roll, sweet baby.

Terror of the Sea play, and they’re young, and local, and filled with vim and vigor and also likely moxie and pep, perhaps even spunk or, one could imagine, wherewithal. Imagine Built to Spill but at your high school, but drunker. We begin to do shots, generally centering on kamikazes, because we are sissies. Our bartrendess slides us a few because we are good customers and also possibly because I am wearing clothing with embroidered hadrurus arizonensis pallidus.

Next up on the slate is Swan Island, a Portland band who I’ve never heard of that is nothing less than enchanting. I cannot recall their music, only the M. Stipe + David Byrne dance stylez of the lead singer, who was dressed in a very formal party dress. I’ve really never seen anything quite like it. Still: not the Gossips!!

On one of my last trips to Red Stick I picked up a 12” of the single from the latest record. Even though I couldn’t tear myself away from the future-dancebeats, I have to say there was some disappointment: it wasn’t trash punk-blues anymore, which is what hooked me in the first place. Still: “dance damage + basement punk/soul clash + noise trash fuxx.” How can you not want to be a part of that? And it was growing on me.

Mika Miko are clanky and loud, and I am drunk, and can’t give ‘em a proper shake. I’m getting sleepy, because it’s midnight and no Gossip in sight. Panic sets in: what if they cancelled? What if Beth Ditto is sick?? OMG OMG METALLICA TOUR VAN TRAGEDY, &tc. I helplessly sift through the merch stand yet again, hoping that there will be some sort of relic I might take him, but let’s be honest, I already own it all, except for the “skunxx not dead” t-shirt, and I pass on that, because I already have to explain half of my existing clothes to curious cashiers at the Jitney 14 anyway.

There are more kamikazes. At this point, I have convinced myself that the beautiful bartendress and I will one day live together in a magic tree in the midst of a Louisiana bayou, to which we will travel on a startlingly sentient lilly pad. Basically, I’m starting to see new colors, which is still not a substitute for dance punk, dammit! Although with the tremendous conversation with the Red Stick team, it’s just about okay.

Then: the stage, it’s just right up next to the entrace, to play you have to walk through everybody, and there’s a good crowd but it’s not packed, just perfect, and it’s not too hot and then a “dum-de-dum” starts up on the bass and I am absolutely blown away.

Guitarist/bassist Brace is a little intimidating; wiry and tall with hair assymetrical: how can so much sound come out of just one instrument? And Hannah is a fucking tatooed god-machine, banging on snares like a punk soul robot.

But Beth Ditto: Beth Ditto is our stunning baby rock and roll Mahalia fucking Presley, strutting about the stage, eyes clasped shut, left hand raised high in the air, praise-stijl, yelping blues. She’s wearing a striped blouse, a neckerchief around her neck—like a picture of a Parisian girl in the 50’s—which she keeps blowing her nose into, apologizing for her cold. If it’s touched her sinuses or anything regulating her voice I’ll be damned. Where does that gigantic noise come from? She’s got an anchor tattooed on her arm and it’s like Popeye if he were from Alternate-Future 20X9, sailor on the sea of molten thumping disko-blues.

I keep punching Fury on the arm, screaming isn’t this great? Isn’t this the most fucking awexxome thing of all time? And to my utter delight he says “YES!”

I am jumping up and down and screaming all the right and wrong lyrics and there’s a kid next to me, she’s got a crewcut and her eyes are scrunched shut tight and “Standing in the Way of Control” begins to jag along, and she puts her fist in the air and this is from NYC but if you let it, it will save your life:

The band hung around later to talk to the crowd, and folks took photos and got autographs and I think of how I didn’t bring my camera, and dear lord, why didn’t I? But it’s okay, because I got to shake Beth Ditto’s hand and I showed her my bracelet—soaked with beer and sweat and whiskey for half a decade, the lettering half scratched and faded—and she says “wow! Where did you get that! Those are old!” And I say: I have been a huge fan of yours for the longest time. You’re just the best. Thank-you.

The Gossip on the webs
The Gossip on the myspaces
The Gossip on the Kill Rock Stars, with lotsa free songs

This entry was posted on Friday, October 13th, 2006 at 2:00 pm and is filed under Gorjus, In the South, Red Stick, The Rock and The Roll. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.