Friend of mine, James, is heading up The Richardsons as they open for the Clorox Girls down at The Shark Tank tonight. What? Again with The Shark Tank! Nevermind. There'll be a lot of other punk bait down there, too, bands like Panik Attak and The Knee Jerks. Read about them elsewhere, my googlers. I won't be down there, but you should go, because it's a dark Christmas-light lit basement, and there's a cheap foozball table (ask for the ball, please), and lots of punks and New Wavers crowding the couches between sets. The Richardsons are a classic punk band. There will be scissor-kicks; militant poses will be struck; circle-pit-fighting will be conducted in a not-very-disorderly atmosphere; and that goth chick in the corner will dance on the spot for a solid fifty minutes. If she can support, so can you. Check it out. Grab up one of the tasty posters, which are horrible and creepy and quite well lettered. And you know what? The Shark Tank might be closing. Because of thieves. The place needs a Jack-the-Giant-Killer giant to sleep in the back, so that would-be burglars should hear him muttering in his sleep and be scared away. "Fee fi fo fum." If anyone has a fold-out cot big enough to hold a large-bodied man with hands like pianos, or better yet, knows such a man, you could do worse than rent him out to The Shark Tank. So put on those black jeans, shrug into a corduroy blazer, struggle into that too-tight vintage t-shirt and high-step your way on down to Chinatown. It's going to be pop-punk 1979 on 102 and 97 Street tonight.
Reading: To Say Nothing Of The Dog + Connie Willis
Listening: "Don't Take Your Life" + Clorox Girls
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