Air Guitar @ Brooklyn Bowl

On April 9th, a crowd of Brooklynites gathered to watch the gods of the most elusive instrument of all -the air guitar- perform. Around 9:45pm (after soundcheck and tuning) superstars of the string ghost put on a show that will forever remain embedded in my memory. Skillfully maneuvering through complex routines these Olympians of sounds not heard hung up their cloaks of inhibition and let loose in front of a crowd eager to be entertained, so eager in fact they neglected to ask a few pertinent questions:

Is this for real? Yes it is!!

Wait, really? Yeah definitely!

Are they seriously judged on an Olympic scale? Yeah! Why wouldn’t they?

Is there really a measurable skill? Yeah: quantitative ridiculousness!



The first performer was quite possibly the closest thing to a carne y hueso version of Meg Griffin I’ve ever laid eyes on. Daily Show correspondent and celebrity judge Jason Jones was in top form as the dick du jour, waging verbal jihad on every performer and audience member within reach. A few others performed not really worth mentioning, except perhaps for the monikers they chose to perform under: Lika Chik, who incorporated stripping into her routine; Martica, a roboto lanky girl who moved so androidially she might have been an Intel prototype; Mad Romancer, in skinny pink jeans, played his guitar to shreds to Metallica; Fresh Prince of Hell-Air was the only non-Caucasian; The Reverend Mikey-O, an old battered ethereal rocker, proving the lifestyle does take its toll.

But the best, most talented, prodigy of the non-instrument was the winner Ricky Stinkfingers who rocked to Carrie Underwood and Lindsey Lohan. He put a smile on every audience member by embracing the ridiculous and making it an art form. The entire thing was over the top. It was a cringe and laughter cocktail. A display of shamelessness and aloofness to societal norms I wholeheartedly envied.

-Metagrime

Photography by Joshua Corkhum

Old Made - Store Opening

To quote the lovely Nicole at Free Williamsburg:

"Check out the Grand Opening of Williamsburg's newest Vintage Boutique-- Old Made. More than just a clever name, owners Leah Kroll and Frances Pezik are bringing you some of the cutest vintage clothing and accessories the 'hood has to offer.

In addition to all the cuteness, they've recruited some awesome local talent for this Friday's opening including music from Drew Citron, Beeping Sleauty, Unsolved Mysteries, Graffiti Monsters; and local arists Ethan Cook, Chelsea Harris, Ivy Weinglass, Eric Von Massey and Morgan Silver-Greenberg.

And the fun doesn't stop after opening night, expect revolving art shows, live music, and maybe even some store front BBQs in the future. Make an appearance on Friday between 7pm and Midnight for a celebratory cocktail off the Lorimer stop, or at least to peep the killer MJ memorial in the window."

**I've heard there are dresses for like twenty bucks - plus bands are going to play in the basement on the regular. There may or may not still be a Boys II Men tshirt for sale and original Elvis Presley cologne. Ummn amazing?! Get a peek at this place before there's a line out the door! Pomp will be there at the opening party this Friday with our fancy shoes on - or we'll just buy fancy shoes there!

-Lauren Mooney

The Teaches of Peaches @ Music Hall

Photo by Nicole Wasilewicz

When I first saw Peaches I was a teenager in frilly panties drinking half of bottle of raspberry vodka before stumbling into the Henry Fonda Theatre in Hollywood. My third time seeing Peaches and I'm stone cold sober fully dressed at the Music Hall of Williamsburg about to turn 26. And one thing hasn't changed a bit - Peaches still rocks harder and longer than any boy I've ever known or seen.

After she stood on top of the audience and the drum machine - she went up into the second level of the venue and announced that her family was here as she put her arms around an older lady (her mom?) and then gyrated wildly over the railing.

The re-enactment of the "Lose You" video complete with the robe costume and projections of faces on her arms was a highlight -- but she had us at "hello" in a ridiculously puffy sexy outfit. The audience was transfixed when she played with a light rod; and throughout the performance she shed a million layers of leotards until she was down to one flesh colored sweat covered number.*

At one point someone next to me compared the almighty Peaches to Lady Gaga - gag me! With her questions and sometimes "fuck you" to gender roles, DIY mentality and Cousin-it backup dancers Peaches is in a place where Lady Gag-me doesn't even know how to dream about - because it's REAL and raw and disgusting and wonderful.

Treating the audience to three encores and letting her backup band (Sweet Machine) - dressed in mermaid scales and lingerie play a little solo number Peaches rode us all into oblivion and even left us wanting more...until next time lady, I love you!

*It is now decided that I will wear nothing but leotards this summer and cut my hair into a Peaches-inspired mullet.

-Lauren

Not My People?

Walking around Union Square, being a big, fat consumer, I couldn't decide what color oxfords would be best: black or brown? What would be best for a lady who loves to wear color?! I asked a random girl who from a distance looked to have good fashion sense. "Brown. you know, all those L train people are always mixing it up- bird in your hat, whatever goes. You gotta mix it up. It's ok,” she advised.

I can't decide whether the fact people consciously acknowledge the L train fashion show is endearing or embarrassing. That *I* might be accused of contributing to the hipster-typical mania is something I am afraid to face. I don't even live in Williamsburg and probably ride the L train....thrice a month. Can I wear brown oxford shoes and avoid the label?

-Suhatcha Nuriyah Panya

Convoy Rocks Glasslands

Glasslands seems to be shrinking. Every time I go in there, they’ve added another bar, or level. They used to be BYOB or whatever else you had on hand. Ever since the powers-that-be made it such a slick, official venue, (to keep up with the rest of burgeoning Williamsburg) it’s lived up to its pseudonym “Assglands."

Glasslands is not a terrible place to see a show or occasional art exhibit. It’s far enough in the middle of nowhere to keep the greasy Jersey boys from reaching it on a Saturday night. It used to be called Glasshouse, on S 1st Street, where you could meet Dylan look-alikes and get smoked up after hanging off the punching bag suspended from the ceiling.

Friday the 13th, however, Artanker Convoy took the stage. Convoy put on a psychedelic light show, projected from the new second level. They had an avant-garde dancer on the scene. The set consisted of songs new and old, “Gotta find a way outta here/ Thought you knew the way out of here” (Arthur, if you know what song this is, send it to me please!).

www.myspace.com/artankerconvoy

Artanker Convoy @ Glasslands 13 March 2009

-Diana Kinscherf

Obamanator

After my sweaty second behind the black voting booth curtain, I hopped on the L train to escape Manhattan. I headed for the emptier streets off Lorimer Street. I was on my way to the Union Docs (www.uniondocs.org) community house, a non-profit documentary artscollaborative and the home of a friend. I hoped this would be the site of a triumph I could almost taste.

Before most of the guests even arrived, Pennsylvania and Ohio had already been Obamanated, and the popping of balloons seemed to signify last gasps of air escaping from the war hero's wounded campaign. As the anticipation mounted and the smiles broadened, visitors donned candidate masks to enjoy the arm wrestling table--Palin imposters won most of the bouts. The line at the makeshift bar lengthened. For $2, you could get an "Obama Mama," a pineapple and rum concoction, or the "Cindy McCain Special," a good ole can of Budweiser, served with a fistful of painkillers for an extra $0.50. Just kidding!



When change officially swept over Union Ave, the dangling Bush pinata was promptly destroyed, while "Na Na Na Na, Hey Hey Hey, Goodbye" and "Signed Sealed Delivered" exploded from house band The Weight. We shook the building with dancing that would have summoned the cops on any other night.






Drained and elated, I jabbered to my Spanish speaking cab driver about the new man in the White House. Whether he understood my words I don't know, but with a huge smile he declared, "It's very good.”

Well said amigo.

-Jake Englander