The Spin
’Stache-tastic
It’s all LeBron’s fault. We had it laid out perfectly: eat a balanced meal, watch the Cleveland Cavaliers—hopefully—beat the Pistons (nice facemask, Rip!), then hit up Mercy Lounge just in time to see Ghostfinger hit the stage in celebration of Moustache May. But then the Cavs embryonic superstar had to go and do something stupid—stupid crazy, that is. He led his team to victory in double (double!) overtime, scoring their last 25 points, and made us fucking late. Oh well. Fortunately we caught Ghostfinger at their in-store on Tuesday at Grimey’s. Both shows were in celebration of the release of Born on the Moon, a 7-inch with some of the most aptly whimsical cover art we’ve seen in a while. The band’s new songs are just as dense, clever and beguiling as ever. Frontman Richie Kirkpatrick is a force of moustached nature, and all those months playing in other people’s bands seems to have made him realize just how much he loves the spotlight. It was telling that when the band took suggestions for an encore, they ended up playing a song off their upcoming record (“Give Me Some Money”) in lieu of an old classic—the kids are pining for some new Ghostfinger. And apparently their set at Mercy was just as impressive. Damn you, LeBron! Speaking of the Mercy show, we’ll go ahead and take this moment to give props to Performer Magazine and Michael Eades at Yewknee.com for putting on a bonanza local event. It had a cohesive theme (there were lip brooms as far as the eye could see, including on oversize black-and-white posters plastered to columns inside), great bands and an impressive turnout. How I Became the Bomb closed out the evening. The recent Nashville transplants (from the ’Boro) are also working out new material after an enthusiastically received debut and, like Ghostfinger, seem to be getting better and better, more and more pro, closer and closer to looking like a band that just has to break. In addition to a fair share of old standards, the quintet trotted out some new songs, and baby-faced frontman Jon Burr looked extra special in his temporary ’stache (better than nothing). There were quite a few fine follicle feats in the crowd, but we’re gonna give our prize to the mysterious blond man with the blond ’stache. Anyone know who that was? About 6-foot-6, severely intoxicated, may or may not book Mercy Lounge…Busty & Baldy
Just like the contestants on American Idol, we had a dream: we dreamed of being able to catch both the Alcohol Stuntband at The Basement and Idol-reject Frenchie Davis at Play in the same night last Friday. The plan got off to a rough start. When we arrived at The Basement for stage one—Oprah says to make small goals toward your larger goal—we were distraught to find out that a.) the order had been flip-flopped and the Stuntband would be playing last, and b.) we had forgotten our wallet. Dismayed and distraught, we thought about giving up, giving in, but then we thought of Frenchie. When she admitted to posing topless and simulating masturbation for an adult website and was kicked off American Idol, despite being one of the early favorites, did she give up? No! She soldiered on, and so would we. We headed home, grabbed our wallet, drove to Play and crossed our fingers that we would make it back to The Basement in time for some of Stuntband frontman Chris Crofton’s wondrous, barely-contained lunacy. We walked in at 11:59, and Frenchie went on at midnight. The crowd went nuts for the extremely shorthaired young star, who just finished a long run in Rent on Broadway, and she responded with humility and palpable warmth. The buxom babe has managed to take her story of strife and transform it into one of muted triumph and resilience—the classic arc for a gay icon. Over the course of her short set, Frenchie was alternately sassy and soulful, and damn can that woman sing—she would have left all our ’07 idols in the dust. Her set was a mix of dance staples like “I Wanna Dance With Somebody” and richer numbers busting with gigantic notes. She closed with “And I’m Telling You I’m Not Going” from Dreamgirls, the song that earned her a standing ovation on Idol before Jennifer Hudson even touched it, and we were out the door. We’re guessing we missed about 20 minutes of the Stuntband’s set—good thing they still had a long way to go. Playing with a retooled band that included Dave Dawson on bass and Falls City Angels’ Brandes Holcomb on lead guitar (the second guitar being a welcome addition), Crofton and crew sounded as on point as they ever have. Sticking mostly to the more rockin’ end of his catalog, Crofton led the band through a fun, loud, invigorating set. A strange cluster of super fans headbanged and moshed along to such classics as “Studs & Sluts” and “Traditional Blues Song” and Crofton explained later that he’s acquired a strange skater following. (Who knew?) By the time Crofton wound down—and kinda fell down, thanks to the tens of shots sent up to the stage—we felt victorious. There is nothing like realizing your dreams, even if they involve seeing a bald chick and a bald dude singing their guts out in the same night.
Only the sexy people
We were pretty psyched at the news of Left Can Dance’s anniversary bash—we’re tired of throwing Smiths’ dance parties in our living rooms—so we booked it over to Mercy Lounge at 9:30 on Saturday night, unaware that LCD wouldn’t go on until 11 p.m. and that Le Tigre had requested a 1 a.m. slot for their DJ set. We used the time, though. DJs Justin Kase and Oliver Dodd opened the show while we worked up a minimal dance-level beer-buzz. Sorry guys, all we really caught from the balcony was a steady (but not icky) thump. Outside, a litany of athletic, spiky-haired androgynous dames filled the balcony, and inside, we heard some remixes of songs by British nu-ravers Klaxons. It was enough to draw us in for just long enough to pretend we were in a city where people actually danced a lot and listened to Klaxons.
The good news was that we didn’t have to pretend for long. LCD deployed Kelly Taylor to mobilize the trickling surge of action with Metric’s “Dead Disco.” And from there the crowd got larger as LCD switched out Taylor for Sam Patton and then LCD queen herself Courtney Wilder, and the dance floor got wetter and the patrons got stickier. Thank you, ever-present couples bumpin’ and grindin’ in the middle of the dance floor with a hysterical lack of rhythm, and dudes who “punch it out” in place of actual dance moves—you kept us highly entertained. Initially, 1 a.m. seemed like an eternity to wait for Le Tigre’s offshoot DJ collective Men, but soon enough it was after midnight and everyone got ready to start seriously shakin’ that azz. Still, we didn’t know what to expect from the moustached J.D. Samson and bouncy-haired Johanna Fateman: riot grrrl anthems or disco-punk, L7 or Peaches? Instead, they busted out fairly mainstream dance-pop confections, like “Push It” and Deniece Williams’ ”Let’s Hear It For the Boy,” which was just as awesome for getting our grooves on. Then again, after beers and shots and everybody-friendly vibes, anything would have been.Send pics of your ’stache, one-liners for Chris Crofton to use in his next stand-up and examples of your favorite gay icon to thespin@nashvillescene.com.
