The Night Was One Big Giant Drag

Tokio, Thursday night. A bar on the dreaded Cahuenga Corridor in Hollywood. I guess the place is closing down. The Japana-bar/lounge thing didn’t work out. Sushi and Red Stripe don’t mix well after all. L.A. Hipster paparazzi Mark “The Cobrasnake” Hunter was there, “documenting,” really working it, weaving around, firing off pictures rapid fire, sharing his Mexican food with kids. It’s as if his camera says, “you’re famous! You’re famous! You’re famous!” with every picture he takes. It sort of does. But who cares. My friend who brought me is from NYC and she wasn’t impressed with the fashion on the kids dancing on stage. The boys wore these short, white boat-y shorts that referenced a miniskirt. I was pleased. I also noticed what seemed to be a gaggle of Cobrasnake copycats. They consitiuted a press corps of dorkey guys with huge cameras dangling near their bellies. They stuck together, whispering into each others’ears.

Giant Drag played. They killed me. “Oh… did you forget… all the words you ever spit… Love love love… this isn’t it… Love love love…you wouldn’t know… if it hit you…” blubbered singer, Andy Hardy. She has this impish girly voice and a cherubic face that belies the dour lyrics, fullness of their sound, her sexual emotivity, and bent banter delivered between songs. The sound: crunchy, full guitar, sick (in a good, propulsive way) drumming, and melody, girly sugary melody. She said things like, “When I was 11, I cut my vagina on a painting. That’s what I know about art.” And a night was redeemed, made glossy, but by the time the set was over, the gloss already began crackling at the surface. Never mind the “hipster elite” infestation all around. All smiles and glad to meet you in their flawless outfits, angular hair, booze. Never mind them. The night was one big Giant Drag. For sure.