Archive for the review Category

Houston VIP Poetry Slam – First in the Season

Posted in bar, houston, poetry, review, southmorehouse, writing with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 4, 2012 by tymora42

It was good to see some of the old guard keeping watch over the up and coming Houston Poetry Slam talent. This was their first slam of the season to prepare for sending a team off to North Carolina. It was a great show, but that is hardly what I want to talk about. I might be a little rusty on appreciating the quality of the poetry involved, yet my good natured heckling skills were alive and well toned. You have to keep yourself in shape.

The venue was a low key coffee house on the east end called Secret Word Cafe. The same place Marcel Murphy, Houston Slam Team alumni, runs a writing workshop every Saturdays at 11am. The barrista / owner (i don’t even want to try and spell her name without seeing it) made a special tea for me and named it after the African name Jelani Williams gave me before he died off continent retracing his roots for the umpteenth time. Can it really be retracing if you have already done it, embraced it and started to live it?

The event was live and I am looking forward to future showcases – every Friday at Secret Word. They have a lot to work on before the Nationals in August. Some great poets spat in our face about greater issues than teen angst, politics, sexuality, color and growing up. The winner, DEEP, hit us with a first person piece about a mother sticking her babies in a dryer or an oven or a microwave. i was never sure which and it could have very well been all three. They were nearly going to forego the encore. i could not let that happen.

Marcel performed a sacrificial piece. It was not his best. It was not his worst either though. My only disappointment (aside from not seeing some of the old school greats: Karega, Rassul, Murph, Marie Brown, Craig Lindsey, Cedric “Brother Ced,” Alex Wukman, Doug Shields…. this list could go on for a while) is that Kyle Blue never stepped out onto the matt. His girl did. She rocked a piece about an aspberger kid wanting to be treated like an adult. My favorite was Peter “the Rock.” Although he did not win that night, I am positive he will be a member of the Houston Slam Team.

Come out and support them. Secret Word Cafe every Friday. Doors open at 8pm.

And Then I Returned It.

Posted in colorado, how to, review, technology, work with tags , , , , , on July 14, 2011 by tymora42

The STIHL 171 was too heavy and did not have much in the way of vibration control so I returned it and put in the order for the 192 CE. This is not to be confused with the 192T CE. The T is an arborist’s saw designed to cut limbs from treetops and in confined spaces. It has a top handle trigger for you to operate it with one hand, but in the carving world it is less wieldly than a two handed rear trigger. They are basically the same saw with different trigger controls. One site said the T is the worst saw to loan out because people are always trying to use it one handed without much experience and end up losing arms and legs in the process. The 192 model is lightweight with intense vibration control. It was always my first choice but because most dealers do not carry it – I went with the 171. Stupid mistake. Go with your gut. It will take a little while to get it in the store for me. Of course, I have waited 3 years thus far, I can wait a week or two longer.

remembering southmorehouse

Posted in band, bar, beer, blog, family, houston, life, love, music, passage, performance, review, southmorehouse, technology with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 12, 2010 by tymora42

southmorehouse logo

Tooling around on the social networks that will remain nameless I saw a post onto a friend, the poet / musician Aaron Trumm’s wall (this may be a better link to him) from a guy I knew back in the southmorehouse days, Alex Wukman, another poet that frequented the community. He commented from his mobile on watching Marie Brown, a Houston slam poet, performing at Inprint! , probably for slam nationals, and remarked how great she was. “When Ruby do hair, Ruby do hair right!” I can remember her starting the rhythm. Alex said he almost forgot how good it was. So did I.

southmorehouse was an avante garde art space, sometimes called a venue, sometimes a gallery, sometimes a commune. Overall it was a loose knit community of outsider artists in many genres. As quoted from a lighter bearing the logo that I pocketed one night, it was a “home for the functionally insane.” The best summary of its existence from beginning to end was written by Buffalo Sean’s Art Blog. Sean would know. In the early days he would pass out drunk on the sidewalk and we would spray paint a chalk outline around him. In the later days he would pass out drunk and we would spray paint a chalk outline around him. Although the location changed, the outlines remained. After 7 years Sean had spray paint outlines of his body all over the city.

I snooped around Alex’s profile not sure if I should send him a friend request. We knew each other. I remembered him. Self doubt crept in and asked if I really thought he remembered me when I saw a link on his favorite movies, “Southmore House: the Rise and Fall.” Edd McCoy, president of the community in the last of its days and art coordinator for the three years prior, told me of a rumor he heard that this was being created. We both thought it was pretty bold for any movie to be made about the venue without consulting either of us. Now that I saw the title “Rise and Fall” it was downright shocking.

After I got over the elation of somebody actually wanting to make a movie about this piece of time that played a major part in my life, I began to notice discrepancies that unsettled me. The first was the separation of “southmore” and “house.” The second was that they capitalized it. Not being much for capitals I tried my hardest to make the lower case clear to the people who made the flyers, but they were making flyers so i was happy enough about that. One thing that did come across eventually was the lack of separations. Evidently not to these guys.

The next, and the biggest, was the lack of the logo anywhere on the page. That logo was a branded symbol encompassing the spirit of the (dis)organization. One part anarchist’s circled A, another part the chaotic randomness within the order of pi, a house with a swooping roof and arched doorway like the original when it was on Southmore street, simple enough to be drawn quickly with a paint can, encouraged to be done on as many occasions as would arise, yet flamboyant enough to be penciled with care and stenciled over with a sharpie there was never a set graphic style to the logo. It was made for everyone to use. It was trademarked and copyright free. But I still never saw it anywhere on their profile page.

So, I looked harder and realized from the photos and videos and comments posted that these were all the kids from the post founder days. These were the attendees that took it over after 2005 when it turned its focus to the hardcore scene. One friend that I do keep in touch with must have seen the “Tyson Moore likes Southmore House: the Rise and Fall” post on my page and went to check it out while I was still perusing for the logo. He seconded the comment Alex made about not focusing just on the music. Alex mentioned the poets. Doug Shields, an event coordinator at southmore, really jump started the slam scene in Houston at the space. Another guy brought up the theatrical production of “The High Elves Christmas Play” hinting at the other stage presentation offered in the pre mid decade years. Rob, the aforementioned friend, said he had the best birthday of his life there. He had pictures to prove it. Was that the night when Organ Failure from Super Happy Funland played Robot Parade and Muff of Amish Acid Dealer knocked over the cabinet? We could not get the smell of vinegar and mustard out of the floors no matter how much Terry, Wendell, and Guido tried. Yes, in case you were wondering, that is what that smell was. Armpits, ass, and vinegar. Maybe a little corn syrup dried up and leftover from the Halloween Blood Bath party. The good ole days.

These memories made me seek out pictures, videos, blogs, whatever would show up in the first couple of google pages. This was problematic. The version of the house that will be remembered by people who do not read will be the latter years when it ended. In 2000 when it started we were on the edge of social technology. Digital camera were astronomically expensive. You can imagine how much streaming web cams cost. You were lucky if your cell phone had color much less the ability to take images or, god forbid, video. Facebook had not even been invented yet. The documentary had 400 friends. I can only imagine how many friends the actual place would have had. For better or worse we touched many lives. If you go to the place our website used to be, southmorehouse.com, somebody bought it up and is selling painting on it.

My next favorite summary was from Loop Scoop in a nostalgic look back on Houston in honor of their 200th post. “#83: the southmorehouse for being whatever it wanted it to be.”

So, I ask you who find this to tell me in the comments about your favorite show at southmorehouse. Make it as long as you want. Put it on your blog and provide a link for us. If you were involved in any way, put a link to yourself. Tell us what you did. Tell us what you are doing. Post those rare pictures and video. Especially the pre 2005 days.

Thanks to everyone who made up southmorehouse. You were the best.

The Michael Cera / John Cusack Transference.

Posted in review with tags , , , , , , , on August 14, 2010 by tymora42

scott pilgrim and one crazy summer movie posters

Just saw Scott Pilgrim vs the World and it confirmed my suspicions that Michael Cera is quickly becoming the John Cusack of the upcoming generation. I like to play this game. All things have happened before and they will happen again so who were they then and who are the them from then now. They have to be loosened most of the time to fit the time like comparing Hendrix to Smashing Pumpkins or Floyd to Radiohead (an obvious one). In the Michael Cera / John Cusack hemisphere they are closely akin and becoming moreso with each passing flick.

Here is my argument. They have that youthful innocence mixed with insecurity. An easy ralation to by the highschooler to early twenty something, perfect for the wry coming of age tween comedy. They are a bit dorky with interesting witticisms insightful to life that make them interesting but because of their overpowering lack of self assuredness, women seem standoffish although they are giving themselves completely to the character. They know this works so they keep on doing it and directors keep on hiring them to play these same parts because it sells.

Let us take the recent Scott Pilgrim movie and bring it back to One Crazy Summer or Better Off Dead. In both of these classics animation was used to express the internal emotions of the main. This is an expression of their juvenile nature battling for a place in their adult life. The same is true for Scott Pilgrim with the constant barrage of video game graphics. Their are evil exes rather than fluffy bunnies. They are rock stars rather than downhill ski champions. Both have kick ass soundtracks of little known then bands. And in the end a basketball swoosh might save the boat temporarily, but it will take something internal to win the girl he has been fighting for. I am not saying they are the same movie. They are the same type of movie. For this they will need an actor that plays the part with genuine believability, an actor that has proven hisself over and over again in this part, an actor that people already love. Replace Cusack with Cera in any one of the early roles and you will see. It is a bit more difficult to go the other way because Cusack has aged, tried various break out roles, and follows the path of the misunderstood adult or the loveable hitman. So I age Cera in my head and nod. I cannot wait to see him in a war movie playing it straight.

Two movies not enough? Let’s go through the gambit of the early years. First we start with Cera. Juno. Nick and Nora. Youth in Revolt. Superbad. Now Cusack. Class. Say Anything. Sixteen Candles. The Sure Thing. They are transposable. They play the same type of character with the same mannerisms and they rake in the dough at the box office. Critics think he has little future because of his limited range, if it is actually limited we do not know. We have not seen him try something different. He plays the part too well and we love him for it. In a way it is like watching an endearing part of yourself grow up and age and become a puppeteer inside John Malkovich’s head.

Of course they have aberrations like Year One or Stand by Me. Cera is not the all american boy that Cusack was. But he is. He is just modified to fit the time.

Tuesday Trike Night at the Dark Horse: Fail

Posted in bar, beer, boulder, colorado, review, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , on June 17, 2010 by tymora42

It is rare that I attend an event and not have a good time and even rare that I feel compelled to write about it. What happened this past Tuesday at the Dark Horse in Boulder for me to feel so completely underwhelmed by something that should have gotten my motor revved? The burgers were great. The beer kept flowing. Most of my friends here were there with me for a going away party that my roommate, Nick, organized. The energy was flowing and we all filled out team slips to compete in the adult tricycle race around the bar. I will tell you. The host.

When you are given a microphone you should use it wisely. You are the central figure to tie in the various acts that follow with enthusiasm and encouragement. You are the instigator of the audience. You are to keep them entertained during lulls and drags along the course. You are to make them forget the dull. You return their attention to the fun they are having. Our host this night did not deliver. When he felt a loss of words for what was being witnessed he used profanity, which does not normally bother me if it is used creatively, but research shows that cussing makes you less likable even if the observer is a regular potty mouth themselves. He used the same jokes in rapid succession following each other like he thought maybe we did not hear him the first time. He went beyond failing to encourage the abnormal behavior of the participants to downright dissing their efforts. He was slow to keep the ball moving and uninteresting in his wit. None of these things are befitting of a host. When he took a bathroom break we almost cheered that he had removed himself from the stage except we were all waiting impatiently for our turn on the cycle. I expected more from a place that obviously likes to screw with their patrons.

Which one would you choose?

I will give the event this: It has potential. Free drinks meaning shots and beer. A large, welded big wheel trike for adults with ramps up and down and a crowd of people cheering you onward on your plight around the central area of the back bar to a spot in the corner where you take a shot, spin around in a barstool, relay back to the starting point, chug a beer, tag up and send your partner round for the same ordeal. You get to pick a team name, perfect fodder for a good host to chum about with while everything gets ready for the go, and a theme song. Why were there not more crazy helmets or costumes? I did not see one. Why were there not more terribly drunken wrecks part for real and part for show? There were a few. Maybe we should have had them chug a beer before they got on the bike rather than at the end. Or at both points. It still would have come down to that damned host to keep the crowd together cheering. After five heats things began to dissipate for the audience and the entire event became suddenly not as humorous.

One team spilled his beer. The host completely missed it. You have to pay attention to those sorts of things and call them out on it. Another team was obviously too drunk to be behind the wheel of the kiddie rides in front of Walmart. He called them out, but not the right way. He was discouraging rather than en-. Say something to the tune of, “We got a real winner here, folks. He has been practicing. Everyone needs to take two steps backward out of this guys way for the wide turns and weaving.” The guy was larger than most. He could also have said in mimic to the boss, “Did we remember to put the beeper on that thing in case he decides to back up?” Another group lost his group member, so he went two round by himself. He got more for that than the guy who spilled his beer. No matter how hard we tried, the host would not let anyone get into it.

It was Team Rocket’s turn, us. They could not find our song. I purposefully picked something obscure because he said that they could find it. They couldn’t. They gave us Team America instead, “Fuck YEAH!” We had our pit crew set up at the shot table interval waiting with salt on his neck, a lime in his mouth, and a shot of that Mexican powerhouse, Tequila, hovering near his breast. Yes, “his” breast. Greg took the first wave. he had some difficulties rounding the video game dead man curve, licked it, slammed it, sucked it, spit, took the required shot of grossness provided by the competition, spun in the stool, and ate it at the next corner. The host was speechless. He had nothing to say. So he fell back on what he knew, cusswords. My thoughts were this, I am going to get messy. He did say two things that could have been better if the energy was consistent. First, as I threw the shots all over everywhere, “You know we do not have showers,” and then following me reentry to the trike, “Are you going to make out with me next?” I should have stood up for that and made the attempt to do so, but my mind screamed, “Go! Go! GO!” So I went and instead made the attempt to run him over. He was standing right in front of me, but still I angled the wheel to make him leap backward. To further emphasize my lack of caring to the no shower policy, my beer chug consisted of dumping it onto my face and catching what little I could in my mouth. It was Budweiser. I do not drink that crap anyway. He says, “Well, now we can get back to normal racers.” Why would you want to do that? We were entertaining unlike you. You should want more people like that to keep alive the cheap gimmick of getting people into the bar and keeping them there drinking.

I have an idea. Get the guys from PropGay to host their homosexual takeover on a Trike Night. Then, you guys will be in for a show. It is just too bad more of them do not wear dresses to those things.

Oh yeah – And get some speakers that actually have bass.

A Date, A Command, A Band – A Good Time

Posted in band, boulder, colorado, faeries, hula hoop, music, review, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 12, 2010 by tymora42

I spent the early part of the day making faerie wings for a friend who will wear them next weekend at the Gay Pride festival in Denver. They were not being made specifically for this event. The faeries told me he needed wings, so I started to make them for him. Most times you have to do what the faeries ask of you after asking yourself why you think they want you to perform such an action. In this case their advice was noble. I set myself to task. No sooner than I had begun in this fashion than they took over my body and hands, sewing dark pink sparkly spines into the shoulders and span, attaching ribbons, and ripping white fish net fabric only to reattach it with tattered love. Some like to make their wings pristine. I prefer the worn throughout ages look, much like the magic of the “used future” that Lucas experimented with in the original Star Wars. At the end of this day’s enterprise I was confident that I would be giving him the gayest thing he might ever own. There is a certain amount of pride derived from this for me, a predominately heterosexual male.

No matter how much I wanted to keep them for myself, I knew they did not belong to me. I was the vehicle for the faeries madness to supply him with a set of aviary devices. But these pixies and sprites did not leave me with nothing. They inspired a story, still in progress, about life choices and consequences that should be released on Stories of the Flea later this season. Jotting this down for editing was the next part of my day.

I called him after his own work day to stop by the house and take a look. He mentioned the style of the lead character in Were the World Mine, a movie about a homosexual boy who gets the lead faerie Puck’s part in a highschool version of Midsummer Night’s Dream. He finds a love potion hidden in the play and turns the whole town gay, including his school basketball star crush. My buddy also had my hard drive, that he was transferring 250 gig of music onto from his personal collection. He could also bring that by. He said he had to leave now because he was going to a concert with another friend being met there. Based on his description, a punk marching band at the Fox on the hill, I invited myself.

They were amazing. March Fourth took the stage with percussive rhythm, a vaudevillian circus of performers, men on stilts, a human puppet show rebelling against the authority of the stringmasters for a night of DIY chaos. Speaking with Joel, a trumpet player in the baker’s dozen or so carnival players, everyone makes their own costumes. Decked in tribal silver face paint, twirling Dali moustaches, black and beaded bodices, striped socks and sleeves, welded spikes on bass drum shoulder pads like something out of Castle Grayskull if Skeletor would have beat that pansy He-Man, hairs of every color, and a layer of that apocalyptic used future dirt that I mentioned before coating their sweat stained bodies I knew there were faeries among us. I was with my people. They had a tribal feel in the same vein as Crash Worship, a similar style group from the 90s, except with a little less darkness and no fire. March Fourth could use a little fire, but that was the thing that got the Worship banned from most places. It was either the torches or the shooting of Roman Candles off the stage that did that. Finally, they resigned to only play in spots that had some sort of horrible accident in its past, like children drowning in the river or the end of a dead man’s curve or next door to a building that burnt down. That was back in the days before ‘goth’ was a genre, people still made their own clothes to go to raves, and raves were non-elitist outdoor events for adults in the know instead of a bunch of kids wanting to experiment with drugs.

LaTisha Strickland, named after a character in a Russian spy novel and one of the energetic dancers, caught my eye before the encore begging for one more song with a single digit pumping the air. She followed suit with her own finger brandishing wind, enthusing the audience for the chant of another. Our sign language conversation went from one finger to two, asking for a second song to be added to the one that looked like it was about to start. She returned my query with seven fingers in the air and I thought that was appropriate, although probably unreasonable. During the movements of that encore performance, she brought out the feather to fan and blow on the audience, who might just as well been working as hard as the band, but still I thought she needed the air more than us. Half naked and dripping with my own sweat, the room cleared as the music finalized. I lingered for a moment, catching my breath, and saw Ms. Strickland sitting on the corner of the stage talking with a group of fans. I went to thank her for her portion of the performance. She mentioned the sweet deal the band got on a house through the International Hostel and that they would all be hanging out there later. Of course I had to ask how a fellow member of this family could get invited back to this Thanksgiving Dinner of sorts and she said I was invited with the tone of telling a brother he was more than welcome to join them on their excursion back to their mother’s place.

Outside I met Blake and Matt flirting with the stilt man, Aaron Lyon, and a cocompatriate, Christopher (not Chris), last name unknown but it might be Long, who has a wife that would happily pay big money for photographs of her hubby making out with another dude. We parted ways with the promise of return later in the evening. Despite work in the morning, Blake agreed to accompany me to the afterparty after a stop at home for a quick refresh, a beer pickup, and a hula hoop grab. LaTisha informed me that Amy was very particular about who played with her hoops so I figured I would bring my own.

We sat outside on the front stoop for a spell crafted of fresh Twilight beer from Deshutes Brewery in Oregon (the origination of this motley crew) and an American Spirit smoke from an African guy outside the Mountain Sun’s Fish Out of Water show a couple nights previous. Christopher joined us while we talked about tigers in the trap with Uranium bullet teeth and frickin’ laser beams. Rich Cawley, the metal worker who designed the M4 ninja star belt buckle, assisted the esoteric conversation out there on the porch and would be a major player in our later evening rendezvous on top of the bus.

Amy Hatfield, the focus of the front page ad and hOt.hOOps teacher, spurred conversation about the kinetic LED hoop I was building for my sister with her collapsible hula hoops. We played with the 40lbs force weighted neodymium magnets I had in my pocket to power the thing as I explained the design of tubes within tubes and coils and reflector sockets. Throwing the ball bearings at her broke one of the cylinders. I did not mind. She could break anything of mine I owned including my heart. She invited us inside to come check out their home on wheels in the back yard. It is nothing special from the exterior, but getting inside is another story. They had beds and seats for the bulk of them in a red tinted glamour of stow away compartments, iTunes flowing music provided by Sid Phillips, the Boone Fairy, and a no ladder entrance to the top, where the rest of the gang drank dangerously from the external sundry supply box seats.

Giggles, Jen Forti, People’s Republic of Portland (buy her stuff here), proclaimed she has been told that she laughs too loud by her fellow bandmates. She brandished this natural talent of amusement for us and still I thought it could be louder. Not that it was not enough to put smiles on our faces, but to be obnoxious it would have to sound more like a cheerleader through a megaphone huffing helium. Anyone who tells you that it is wrong, honey, is just jealous. Jen’s character was one of my favorites. With the spirit of a mime she tried to fit in with the cool kids a la a rope tussle and a stilt war. Constantly, she ducked under and hopped over members without a single place because her skills were too broad to be pigeonholed. Good for you. Keep on chuckling.

We also met Faith Jennings, another dancer of the macabre and hatmaker clothing designer. Utilizing my mnemonic devices to remember names, i told her I did not believe in her nor did I believe anything she would say based on principle. Her famous quote from the evening – “The best part about being in the band is not about the music. It is about making out with the groupies.” They debated about the usage of the word ‘groupies’ and concluded it for our benefit with the change of the word to ‘fans.’ Andy Shapiro, a newer member, who learned to play saxophone just so he could run away with the M4 circus, retorted, “You guys are fans for life. Right?” Sure, you guys are great, unless you do something stupid like go J-Lo ubermainstream and stuffy. I will tell you though, I am not rushing out to get a tattoo right away, buddy.
Even though it is a cool logo. Later he would end up with the perfect traffic cone and Katie Presley’s cell phone sized MP3 player pretending to be the modern punk rock equivalent of the RCA dog. Are those bugle boy jeans you are wearing?

We stayed on top of that bus most of the rest of the night. On a restroom run into the house, trying to conserve the interior traveling tank’s capacity, I saw LaTisha, the instigator to this journey, sitting on a vinyl couch with Luke Solman, trumpet player. She welcomed me, glad I made it, and I let them continue. Twos had begun to separate for the sake of intimate conversation time. Jenny DiDonato and a former member of the band who moved to Boulder a while ago talked on the stoop near the tigers with frickin’ laser beams while I hooped in the street to realign my bearings.

One member I would like to discuss is the bus driver, the Neal Cassady of the group, known by the crafted name of Bangkok, don’t ask him why, and better known as Alex. They have the categories of the Brass, the Beauties, and the Beats on their website, but not the vehicular counterparts that get them to where they are going. They are a valid an important part to the crew. They keep it all moving. They make sure everyone who needs to be on the bus is on the bus when the bus starts moving by taking off at scheduled times. At the very least he needs a spot on the web lauding his accomplishments and relationship with the craft affectionately known as the Razzle Dazzle, or Razz, or a number of other nicknames they declined to tell us. Razzle needs a spot in that category as well. We need the story of the name derived from the Hollywood Bowl and that ninety year old Broadway showtunes singer, who gave it her ancient energy, her blessing, through song to keep on trucking from town to town for the sake of entertaining these millions stuck in the real world.

We left the night with that song in our own hearts.We hugged you all. We never gave Aspen the whiskey, but he found it anyway. We hope you enjoy your travels not only when you look back after the time has gone, but while you are in the midst of it despite the strength of such magnanimous personalities because I know they can be oppressive. I have been there. Keep beating your drums. Keep blowing your horns. Keep on moving and keep on playing. As the command goes, “March Forth!”

Fish Out of Water

Posted in bar, beer, blog, boulder, california, colorado, music, review with tags , , , , , , , , , , on June 7, 2010 by tymora42

Walking a friend home last night, involved in a deep conversation about the social stigmas placed upon the American culture regarding homosexuality despite the youthful curiosity of childhood, we passed the Mountain Sun, a brewery pub in Boulder with the best beer you cannot buy in stores. They were the only establishment rocking hard enough for us to take notice. Some funk band was jamming out inside with a small crowd of people dancing out front. When the population floods out of the hall where the band plays still grooving, it is always a good sign. We made the end of the block, gave our hugs, set our stage for the morrow, and parted ways. You bet I went back to see what they were all about.

The group was called Fish Out of Water from Mendocino, CA. They were kids wearing bellbottoms without shirts and I think they brought their own panties for girls to throw around. I only caught the last two songs and the encore, but it was enough. One song had two endings, the airplane, and the drown to stop. They thanked everyone for a good time. Everyone thanked them by yelling, “Its only one o’clock. Why the hell are you stopping?” So they brought out the little tykes xylophone keyboard and whanged away with the drummer on an instrumental. Two boys from Bongolov (playing July 10th at the Drafthouse) jumped on the mic for some ambient rhythm flow devoid of many real words or so it seemed. It was like Lisa Girard rapping to a George Clinton lullaby.

Fish Out of Water is playing again tonight (June 7) at the sister spot of the Mountain Sun, the Southern Sun. You should go.