1970's Corduroy 04.01.2011

No shop has the unappealing appeal that attracts so violently as the Abercrombie and Fitch store. 

Drifting through the slinky slick mall, the heavy, rancid arsenal of the A&F cologne managed to breach my snot-filled snout, and possess my grey matter. With a jolt, it had me snared by both nostrils, dragging me into the dark, cavernous store to be greeted by the foxy stereotypical blonde in a red plaid shirt and black cling-wrap jeans.

Having had my ego blunted by the preppy ice-cold assistants,

I emerged, exorcised, shimming like a preteen lady gaga fan with two new sweaters and a shirt.

Blowing all this cash on a red plaid button shirt, a free rock gig at the Lincoln centre was music to my ears. 

The Lincoln Centre, hosting the Big Apple Circus’ candy-coloured hexagonal volume, sits beautifully on Amsterdam Avenue, inviting a crowd to mingle. On this night, unlike all other nights, the debauchery of the ‘Rock and Roll Circus’ was about to soil the red carpets and turn the big top into a heaving rock orgy.

 The main liners, with intoxicating substances submarining through their veins were the greasy long haired guys in clown suits in the front row. But it was the headliners that the crowd were amped to witness. 

On the bill this fine night the So So Glos, Pharmacy and Voxhaul Broadcast would precede the hard hitting Japanther.

Strapping myself into this roller coaster ride, a euphoria-injection was administered allowing pure rock bliss to wash over me.

 the So So Glos hailing from the vibrant streets of Brooklyn, New York decked in black skinny jeans, 12-eye doc martins, pencil thin ties and suit jackets were the caffeine kick that got the crowd bouncing off the walls of this rock n roll asylum. As if the lead singer’s spunk tasted sweet as honey, the crowd lapped this band up, clambering on stage and huddling around the four-some. The audience moshed as rain dancers in the Australian Outback, surfed the sea of hands and throbbed to their melodic beat. The band with their Killers-esque ear-easy tunes played the crowd like a fifth instrument. This is definitely a band that left my innards barely riveted to the bone structure of my body. 

 

The mc, a screaming queen with bandied cowboy legs, a horses mane for a hair piece, and enwrapped in a pink slinky 80's cocktail dress, looked like a sweet and sour Chinese spring roll, encouraged the crowd to screech for Pharmacy.

Dressed in corduroys, knitted Christmas sweaters, polo necks, turned up jeans and loafers, Pharmacy strummed their Fenders, stroked their ivories and whistled a melody. Reflecting the Swedish poppers, Peter Bjorn and John, this quirky trio offered pleasant folksy rock not suited to a sex scene in a Hollywood movie but rather to the closing scene of a surfer movie.

For fans of the screaming 60's, this band would sit dandily next to the Beatles or the Beach Boys.

Letting intermission slide without tucking into a vegetarian hot dog would have been sacrilege. Being so hungry, I scoffed it without chewing and as it burrowed its way through my food canal, I could hear it drop into the cavernous bowl of my stomach with a thud. To moisturise my parched, cracked lips I guzzled down a half litre of black-tar tasting dark ale made in the back garden of a Brooklyn-ite. Having satiated my hunger and thirst, it was left to rock to fill the musical gaps.

And then the world as I knew it changed. From LA, Voxhaul Broadcast burst onto the sunken stage. The crowd huddled in a semi-circle around the band, and the photographers sat perched like snipers awaiting the defining shot. David Dennis, the lead singer, tall, slight, asymmetrical hair, bedecked in leg-clinging jeans and converse sneaks, blurted out hard hitting lyrics with a voice that could have toppled Babylon and lung capacity that could have inflated the Hindenburg. A confident command of the stage allowed the limelight to beam directly on to him pushing his band members in to the recesses of back stage darkness. 

Although catchy poppy beats, it was his voice that left the angels upstairs playing air guitar solos.

Once Voxhaul had un-screwed their high hat, rolled away their bass drum and unplugged their Marshal amps, the Circus turned into a zoo. 

Japanther, a metal rock band launched onto the stage. Their lead singer, with his Krusty the clown cotton-ball of an afro and top-hat, looking Slash-like, incited the crowd to rock violence. The groupies, heaving from the constraints of the seating area, burst onto stage like a splattered melon engulfing the band members. The mosh-pit was carnage. Fist fights broke out and it was the Rodney King show all over again. A voice, a godly voice over the PA, urged the crowd to recede.

After barely 3 tracks of finger callusing metal rock, the show nose-dived like a lead zeppelin. The effects lights were doused, the audience dispersed and the dial on the rock station had moved to a snowy silence.

i walked out of there, stuck my hands in my pockets to avoid frost bite, swiped my metro card and jumped on the '1' train home. What a night. New York’s gnarly back had reared itself once more, invigorating, energising me, sending my creative juices in to a cocktail best served on crushed ice.

‘the Russian Bear Hunter’