In this attempt at writing:
dd/mm/yyy,
Matt & Kim,
Japanther
Montrealers feel a strange seduction for the Canidae family, especially the wolf (evidenced by such monikers as Wolf Parade, Aids Wolf, We Are Wolves). So when Brooklyn, NYC exports north the Feline duo, Japanther, I decided to hit the zoo (wow Tully, that was a lame opener, how are the career applications going?).
Wednesday night I fed and read to my octopi (some Mark Twain, some Cracked Magazine), polished my shoes and social skills, collected some spare change from underneath my neighbor's bed (she's a heavy sleeper and I had a spare oxygen tank) and headed over to Club Lambi to get a little rock n' roll out of my system, thickening the air. The lineup was oh so generous, the crowd: blood-ready for the take.
dd/mm/yyyy (pronounced 'Day Month Year' according to some of the more literary types) got things a-startin' to a dance floor that was more like a screen for some kind of gaping mouth machine. Perhaps it was early, more likely we just didn't know when to start our headbanging, when to switch to foot-stomping, and whether to hug or shiv our neighbors. It was that kind of frenetic post-baroque dyst-operetta which I am sure an upping of nocturnal drunkenness would turn things all noise-a-rama insanity. Below is the weakest of my petty pic-taking (but it doesn't get that much better, so enjoy the writing kids).
Question: what puts an awkward smile on Tully's stretched mug? Is it cute girls with bigger smiles and wildly expansive stick swinging tattooed arms? Is it endearingly nerdy pitched and overwhelmed keyboard talky-talky singers who perpetually act like they are a guest over for afternoon tea?
The Answer is one part each and a good dash of hopscotch synth tunes beaten down by thick and unequivocally confident battery bashing. This is Matt & Kim (poorly pictured below). Chase it down with shocky-hand robot dancing and grab somebody's love handles until they bruise (in a good way). I told Kim, whose name I knew personally, to come back and do another show and that she and Matt can have my apartment as long as they pull their weight and learn to use my Swiffer. But seriously, I love them both, oh so much.
dd/mm/yyy,
Matt & Kim,
Japanther
Montrealers feel a strange seduction for the Canidae family, especially the wolf (evidenced by such monikers as Wolf Parade, Aids Wolf, We Are Wolves). So when Brooklyn, NYC exports north the Feline duo, Japanther, I decided to hit the zoo (wow Tully, that was a lame opener, how are the career applications going?).Wednesday night I fed and read to my octopi (some Mark Twain, some Cracked Magazine), polished my shoes and social skills, collected some spare change from underneath my neighbor's bed (she's a heavy sleeper and I had a spare oxygen tank) and headed over to Club Lambi to get a little rock n' roll out of my system, thickening the air. The lineup was oh so generous, the crowd: blood-ready for the take.
dd/mm/yyyy (pronounced 'Day Month Year' according to some of the more literary types) got things a-startin' to a dance floor that was more like a screen for some kind of gaping mouth machine. Perhaps it was early, more likely we just didn't know when to start our headbanging, when to switch to foot-stomping, and whether to hug or shiv our neighbors. It was that kind of frenetic post-baroque dyst-operetta which I am sure an upping of nocturnal drunkenness would turn things all noise-a-rama insanity. Below is the weakest of my petty pic-taking (but it doesn't get that much better, so enjoy the writing kids).
Question: what puts an awkward smile on Tully's stretched mug? Is it cute girls with bigger smiles and wildly expansive stick swinging tattooed arms? Is it endearingly nerdy pitched and overwhelmed keyboard talky-talky singers who perpetually act like they are a guest over for afternoon tea?
The Answer is one part each and a good dash of hopscotch synth tunes beaten down by thick and unequivocally confident battery bashing. This is Matt & Kim (poorly pictured below). Chase it down with shocky-hand robot dancing and grab somebody's love handles until they bruise (in a good way). I told Kim, whose name I knew personally, to come back and do another show and that she and Matt can have my apartment as long as they pull their weight and learn to use my Swiffer. But seriously, I love them both, oh so much.
Following the Brooklyn twosome routine was the main event, the Yes Cats, Japanther. Whereas M & K's sound of drums and keyboard fit the description, these two guys managed to exude a samurai trickery of attack, and I kept looking over my shoulder for another guitar or bass player hiding in the crowd, ready beat someone over the head with pure dissonant madness. They were definitely not the "we are just doing what we are told" types, but the kind of mad scientists who watch with grinding glee as their subject's writhe in jerky orgasmic pain. (I should add, again, that I mean everything in a good way, a very good way). They paused not, questioned naught, and went straight for the jugular. Picture taking can be a real pain in the fucking colon when you just have to dance and thrash. If you don't keep moving, you will suffocate. It was that kind of show, and today, the bruises prove it.
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