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| Photo by Kenny Shin |
While Ron Paul supporters got high on some politickin' about a presidential bid or some shit in Webster Hall's basement, we chilled out maximus to the stoner hippie stylings of Tame Impala upstairs in the Grand Ballroom.
Chicago band Yawn was already opening the show when we got in. All I remember, unfortunately, was thinking the singer was cute and the drums were nice and dancey.
During the intermission, we got all soul-searchy and weird pondering about when we would stop checking out new bands and seeing them live and got a little grossed out on the prospect of being in our 50s and still raging at indie shows... then Yuck came on. Earlier than scheduled, even, and we hope this didn't mean their set would be longer than necessary (it wasn't).
This band sounds a bit Pixies-ish and like they belong doing guest spots on '90s teen dramz like Beverly Hills 90210. Aside from this there was some denim on denim, Poppy hair and an Acapulco bata (we like the word "bata"). I want to say we were kind of tricked into enjoying their set -- we weren't in the mood but in order to not get bored we listened and swayed to the songs which really weren't so bad, especially one song called "Fat Pussy."
After the torturous but inevitable worst 30 minutes ever --the ones before a headlining band comes on-- Kevin Parker and co. brought their cute bare feet to the Webster Hall stage for the first time in NYC since November's Bowery Ballroom show. For an hour and a half we shook, shimmied and swayed as they hopscotched through jams from Innerspeaker, played a phenomenal cover of Massive Attack's "Angel"--amped to the appropriate volume level for once-- and topped with what drumma Jay Watson called a "decadent medley, like a slice of decadent cake" to which Kevin replied saying "la torta" in Spanish and our ears perked up at the sound of our native language being spoken by an adorable Aussie in an enviable cheetah shirt. This decadent torta consisted of "Lucidity" and parts of "Skeleton Tiger" and "Half Glass Full of Wine." I expected "41 Mosquitoes.." would be thrown up in that slice but nay. No encore, either, since those things tend to get lame according to Kevin Parker but worry not, he assured they were to return soon enough to satiate our needs. That said, I'm just putting it out there: next time give us some "41 Mosquitoes..." and "Sundown Syndrome," grcs.
Homeward bound, we guzzled black cherry sodas and talked about many a thing as usual, including Snail's accidental eavesdropping on a disgusting post-concert conversation, and wrapped up another night of doing what we do until we can't handle people all up in our auras no more: getting our minds blown by our favorite artists live.
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