Show was really good with many Everlasting Big Kicks. Boston Spaceships/ The High Strung, go see 'um.
The other tail I wanted to recount was wha'appened Fri nite after I survived the sold-out second show of Meat Pupz/ Dino/ BtS. I say "survived" because by the time that show ended, I'd had 4 hours of sleep, 3 Amtrak rides, 2 depos and Danny Partridge in a pear tree in my stomach for the last two days, and seriously just wanted to get to Les and Rob's place and crash bigtime. (In my fatigued and overloaded state I also failed to take the proper steps to hook up with Bamboo and the Flon and a couple other ppl, which doesn't make me happy.)
In checking my cell fone after, I found a msg from Les asking "how did I feel abt karaoke?" Given that I happen to hate karaoke even when awake and alert, in my exhausted state that question was sorta like asking "How do you feel about disembowelment?" I left her a voice message saying uh I'm very sorry but I REALLY Do Not Like Karaoke DO NOT WANT, only to get a text back from her saying her fone wasn't working and could I meet her and Rob in Room 11 of "Sing Sing" on Avenue A. So I had no choice but to hie my sleepy self into a cab and off to the aptly named "Sing Sing" at the other end of the island.
Upon my arrival at 2 am, I found this joint that looked like a regular karaoke bar up front, with drunk twentysomethings loudly murdering songs off a big screen, and then in the back there was some tall punk Asian dude checking people in and out of numbered rooms like an hourly rate bordello. In each of the rented rooms was a karaoke machine blaring accompaniment at earsplitting levels with drunk ppl (you can have beer sent in) attempting to sing along. Wandering the bright pink and green corridors in search of Room 11, I discovered that the mike setup projected each singer's voice out into the hall while keeping most of the soundtrack inside, so the resulting hall noise includes many disembodied off-key drunk voices badly warbling Britney Spears (or as Rob calls her "Spittinme Beers") and rap. It was like being trapped in the hall of an insane asylum or in a Bosch painting reinterpreted in neon pastels by Mark Ryden, and listening to the shrieks of the damned.
I finally found Room 11 in the basement, where Rob, Les and bwana aka Peter were boozily belting out "My Sweet Lord" (Lesley's having a big George Harrison phase). Les tried to get me to sing but on four hours of sleep with a sore throat and both ears shut (I need to see the doc, this infection isn't going away), I just couldn't, even if I could get past the creepy horror I feel abt karaoke generally. My friends have good voices and I don't mind listening to them sing if they were just singing in their loft or in a practice space or even a regular bar, but I didn't wanna be stuck in pink and green KARAOKE HELL at 2:30 am. I just wanted to be home in bed.
Fortunately after about an hour they called it a night and went to haggle with the desk guy over the bill while I fell asleep leaning against the wall to the dulcet tones of a gang of girls crucifying "I Think We're Alone Now" in the front bar. We then stumbled back to R and L's loft (five flights, no elevator) where I discovered I had got my period (oh joy) and collapsed on their showroom couch amidst a dozen mannequins with their doggies Boo and Prudence. The next day after getting some actual S-L-E-E-P, I felt much better and we all went for yummy vegetarian dim sum and onward to furthur advento0rs, but OH MI GWAD KARAOKE HELL! 'twas like a bad dream.