Last night, someone asked me if I own Baby’s.
I haven’t been this proud since I got invited to the staff party without working there.
~
I owe Perfectly Imperfect a major shoutout for including me in their editors’ recs. Huge flub that I didn’t do that in my last post.
But also, if you subscribe to this newsletter, I’m sure you subscribe to that one. Tyler is wonderful and he’s been so encouraging as I’ve gotten this page going. Super grateful.
We collaborated on a playlist featuring many ~but not all~ of our favorite NYC artists. Definitely worth digging through. Legends only.
9/4 ~ Kierst x Alex Gleeson’s wallet x every game in the bar
I don’t want to bash independent artists, but I might lose my credibility if I don’t criticize something. So I’ll take my critical energy out on the Elsewhere wrist band system. I guess this is where I draw the line on surveillance capitalism. I don’t want to upload my bank account onto my wrist so I can buy a $14 Tecate tall boy. Catch me drinking water in protest—I’m voting with my feet on this one.
But if Tope and the other legends on their booking team keep throwing bangers, I’ll keep showing up. Kiersten is one of the friendliest people I’ve met in NYC and I miss running into her on door shifts at Baby’s. I don’t typically gravitate toward slow and ethereal music, but Kierst’s songwriting cuts through—powerful melodies.
With slow bands, it’s extra-important to me that the drummer is a machine. Jamie from Horse Jumper is the blueprint—his control of the kit is what makes it possible to feel the energy and suspense in all the silence. Sean is a pro. His consistent touch holds all the pieces together. I kept thinking I heard harmonies when only Kiersten was singing. I’m not certain, but I might have been reacting to the way her guitar chord voicings complimented her voice.
Big Jack and I were gonna hit the popup show at Bar Freda with Frost Children, Precious Human, and I forget who else. But the only way we could keep Alex Gleeson along for the ride was by staying close, so we went to the Narrows. While I was in the bathroom, Alex discovered he’d left his wallet at Elsewhere, and he disappeared into the night.
But Beth and Ella rolled thru. Along with professional legends Sam and Iris. We hung for a while and when Iris and Sam left, we took the party to Bushwick Ice House. We played every game in the place. Gin & tonics for the team. Jack and Beth won, but Ella and I learned so much about ourselves along the way.
9/7 ~ Chaos Computer
POV: You buzz in at Chaos Computer (secret location in an industrial part of BK—a ghost town at night) and walk up the stairs. The person working door asks, “Are you here for the show?”
Do you:
a. Continue as planned. This is a normal thing that people say.
b. Take it personally. Start wearing more black.
~ ~ ~
I’m still deciding.
I was feeling low and restless. Showed up to this one alone. “Take me out tonight / where there’s people and there’s music and they’re young and alive” kinda vibes. Happy to confirm I can still handle a show like that. It was refreshing to feel like an outsider after getting so used to seeing friends play. Challenging too though—only so many ways you can lean against a wall, and so many times you can justify a cig break. Felt like my solo trips to the Glove in 2018.
I was pretty into the first artist. Aggressively lo-fi, but still super dancey. Think they were called Spooky Systems or something like that. Keep an eye out for sure.
Between sets, I overheard some punks in the smoking room discussing their creative process—something about walking on their hands and shoving objects into a jar of mayonnaise.
9/8 ~ US Open x Chaos Computer x Home Sweet Home
The Brother Moses boys are all pretty thoroughly domesticated. Which is wonderful—I love hanging with everyone. But it’s rare to get a BNO. John Lewis showed up to this one ready & raring. Eager to slap the proverbial bag.
We started at the US Open with James, Alahna, and BroMo manager Eliot. The tickets were free and I love when things are free. I mostly empathized with the ball chasers. I have a real fear of running in front of other people. There are specific poses for different moments, and they have to sprint back into position as soon as they pick up a ball. The ground balls shouldn’t be hard to catch, making me even more afraid to fumble one in front of a stadium of octogenarians.
From the Mets stadium to Chaos Computer. Paco performed a spoken word set over a throbbing drone-y beat. Colby Nathan balanced experimental performance art with poppy musical accessibility. The visuals were sometimes calming, and often psychedelic in the way they morphed between spaces. It was weird, but there was plenty to latch on to. There’s nothing I trust more than a Gabi Rudin rec.
Favorite lyric: “There’s something missing…in my life.”
John Lewis and I skipped out early, sacrificing a chance to see Banny Grove for the familiar depravity of a Thursday night at Home Sweet Home. When we arrived, two people made fun of my shirt. One of them was Chris Danis: “So what’s with the flannel shirt? A statement? Or happenstance?”
Chris speaks very freely around me for a guy who knows I have a Substack. This time, he divulged that his music industry ambition is little more than a means to an end. That’s right—Bladee’s agent is chasing music industry glory because it might help him get on Survivor. Chris is a student of the game. He was personally invited to play in the world’s premier Survivor fan league. If there’s anybody on this email list who can help the man go pro, please meet us at Home Sweet Home next week.
I met Sasha from The Cut x New York Magazine x Starter Packs of NYC, who seems awesome. She said Harrison introduced himself to her at a café after recognizing her from her Twitter picture: “He’s a simp.” When I stepped outside, Charlie—the blog’s newest unpaid intern—said, “I’m trying to figure out if this is the Jonathan Fire*eater era or if it’s The Strokes.” Either way, it’s certainly a weird & exciting moment. Very proud of my friends.
9/9 ~ Otis Mountain Get Down (Day 1)
Alex Gleeson convinced me to go to this festival then bailed the week of. Guess he couldn’t take the heat. It was a 7-hour car ride to Elizabethtown, NY, and everybody had to camp in the woods. Harrison was also supposed to come, but the music industry changed him.
The Sitcom boys were slated to pick me up at 9:30 AM but didn’t show til 10:45 AM—a helpful delay. I sat in the back. Gavin got pulled over. I almost accidentally complimented the cop’s buttons on his shirt, but realized that wasn’t a good idea.
Otis Mountain Get Down is a different crowd than I’m used to. The most five panel hats I’ve seen in years. People with jobs in biotech walking around barefoot. Hikers and UVM bros. Quite a few Tarzans wandering through the crowd with long hair, open shirts, and unnervingly sculpted abs. A few young kids, and a fair amount of old people to even things out.
I signed in as Harrison so I could get the free beer and burgers backstage. There I was, at Otis Mountain Festival, living half my dream. The only problems were, I wasn’t actually in the band and I wasn’t making any money. The first band we heard mentioned Memphis three times in one song. Memphis is 1,245 miles from Elizabethtown NY—why is there so much crossover between country Western and Vermont hippie branding?
Sitcom played to nobody at first, and then to everybody. That’s kind of how this one operated. All the attendees bought tickets before the bands were announced, so they floated between stages as music stopped in one location and started in another. Halfway through, someone yelled, “Play Girls!”
Later in the night, Jake said something that offended Gavin. When Jake apologized, he said, “Sorry—I was just going random style.” Jake did a lot of this trip random style. Get a couple sips of CBD seltzer in the guy and he starts talking to old dudes like it’s nobody’s business—he was uncharacteristically engaged. Jake met one guy by the fire and they ended up taking a long walk together.
I slept outside so I could avoid the whole interaction of asking to share someone’s tent and then figuring out if I could actually fit.
9/10 ~ Otis Mountain Get Down (Day 2)
In the morning, people were biking up the mountain very slowly. Someone told me they were also going to bike down the mountain very slowly, which blew my mind.
Matt and I swam in the river while Jake and Gavin played with a highlighter-yellow spider. Favorite moment was when somebody in the water yelled for his friends to throw him the ‘Banquets and McLighties.’
I didn’t know where Mulch was for 65% of this experience. And keep in mind that we spent 15 cumulative hours in a car together. I think he was just off making a lot of friends. Matt was wearing Uggs and a bright red oversized hoodie—easy to spot.
I got to hang with the Gift team more than I have in the past, which was wonderful. Turns out I knew TJ’s old band from Boston DIY.
Dearest Justin, I don’t think I’ve talked to you since we agreed to meet by the artist tent. I didn’t see you over there. Couldn’t text—nobody had service. Sorry to Irish goodbye. I hope you’re set was killer and I’m looking forward to hearing about it : )
The real insight I gained from this trip is that Jake from Sitcom really does drink smoothies. He even bought me my first ginger shot—is this what it feels like to have a big brother?
On the ride back, Sitcom was divided on the question of whether Blake’s sack is visible in the racy pics he took for Sex Magazine. Matt was a firm believer. Jake said it was just the Citibike brake wire dividing his thigh.
9/11 ~ Sunday
I texted The Dare to ask where he was DJing. He told me the address but said, “I don’t have a list.”
Harrison, next time they don’t wanna give you a list, tell them you’re The Dare.
~ ~ ~
Appendix:
I struggled to choose which Horse Jumper Audiotree video to share, so here are some of the others I considered: Spaceman, Poison, and Volcano
Picking a fight with a Pitchfork write-up from 2016 is far beyond beating a dead horse, but check out this HJOL review when they talk like Jamie doesn’t know what he’s doing: “The penultimate track…proves downright unlistenable; Vadala-Doran, a serviceable percussionist on the rest of the album, suddenly fumbles around like a novice, struggling to keep in step with his bandmates’ funereal pace. The result is a meek introduction to a modest band that feels simultaneously overdue and undercooked.”
This one’s goofy.