Saturday. Again.

I started Saturday off with a sour, yellow paste caked on my teeth and the seedy feeling that I was in for a heavy weekend. I welcomed the day like one should any: with a cold
splash of beer in One
and a tar black
misting
espresso
in the Other. Sore. Clutching. Claw.
What had I done? Who gives a fuck? I tossed and fussed in my child’s grievance
about misdeeds, swallowed an anti-inflammatory, and rallied the troops.
It was to be SexGarage at Pride for the first piece of entertainment.
We arrived at the outdoor venue not one glass of malt liquor shy of fashionably. Follow?
And what a fashion show it was to be.
It looked like a Japanese comic about teenagers in the future.
It looked like Montreal.
We looked like enthusiasts.
Our eyes looked like twitching, crimson spiderwebs.
The Call Up strolled on for a high quality,
if slightly lackluster
performance that was like a hot band on the eighteenth day of a downhill tour in Eastern Europe.
Good.
But not Great.
Frigid put on a show that reminded you that
punk was constructed by lunatic fags in tight, black trousers
not angst-ridden yuppies with mohawks
The only problem with Frigid’s show, in fact, was that he was a haymaker
before Gravy Train!!!!’s bitchslap. Fuck they sucked. No puns, I swear.
It was these sad Californians guys with a keyboard on autobeat and boob jobs.
One of them went plinky-plonk on the keys,
the other three danced and screeched in the most boring, irritating fashion imaginable,
and we walked right the fuck out of there and back to HQ to get ready for the SAT.
An awesome afternoon, mostly thanks to Frigid and the crowd of beautiful Montrealais. Like usual, the locals showed the out-of-town hypey headliners up some good.
When we hit the scene we were already hung-over, too stoned, and cranky.
The royal plural, maybe. Hard to say.
Motor were well into a mechanical, pulsing set that was really only special in its pleasing coincidence with the projected visuals.
It was a great show if you imagined it as an art exhibit.
It was definitely not a crowd pleaser.
Jordan Dare fixed that.
As usual.
That place gets more quatre-cinq-zero by the day.
What do we expect?

Jack Oatmon:
Music. Disco Volante
Politics. Mercurius Dystopia