New York art punks Les Savy Fav have earned a reputation as one of the most unpredictable live bands around. Frontman Tim Harrington—all beard and belly—is known for kicking up a ruckus, so Ryan Little and I headed over to The Black Cat Saturday to see if its low ceiling could withstand Harrington's assaults.

Pre-Show Banter

Ryan Little: How many times have you seen Les Savy Fav?

Matt Siblo:  I've seen them about five or six times; each one has been an experience. Highlights that readily come to mind: a Brooklyn warehouse show with Q and Not U and El Guapo sponsored by Four Loko pre-cursor Sparks, a bizarre MoMA event where they supposedly inflicted thousands in damages, and, uh, the time singer Tim Harrington kissed me on the mouth during "The Equestrian" at ATP NY. How about you?

RL: I am a virgin to Tim Harrington's live antics. Ever since I missed a LSV show in 2002 because I was reading Greek literature (the one and only time in my college career that I got distracted by and not from studying), I've been hearing hyperbolic praise from friends. Yet, for whatever reason, I've had something going on nearly every time they've come around since...and they come around a lot. I'm trying to keep my expectations low, despite the endless stories I've heard about Christmas trees thrown into crowds, microphones shoved into boxer shorts, etc. I'm guessing Tim was a little fresher back in '02, but I sure hope he's got some crazy left in him. Do you think their material has aged well?

MS: For the most part, yeah...I think so. In terms of their early aughts post-punk contemporaries, albums like Go Fourth and 2007's Let's Stay Friends sound remarkably fresh. I will say that its last, Road to Ruin, is a bit of a slow burn and I'm curious to see how much of that makes into the set. Were you a big fan of the dance-punk revival when it was at its peak?

RL: I've not heard Road to Ruin, so that will be new to me. I listened to a reasonable amount of dance-punk in its heyday, but I wasn't obsessed...a !!! mp3 here, a Bloc Party record there...you know, I kept abreast of the situation, but it wasn't an addiction. I'm glad things have generally diverged from that point though, and I think LSV stands above many of the tropes of that scene. Alright, I'm grabbing a video camera.

Post-Show

RL: Well, after about a decade of misses, I can finally cross that band off my list. It was a long time coming, and it was inevitably less thrilling than it would've been without the years and years of build-up. Still, it was a good time. Tim Harrington's antics did not disappoint, in that everyone who was at that show walked away with a good story to tell their friends. Did it match up with the previous sets you've seen?

MS: After chatting with you and some friends prior to LSF taking the stage, it was interesting to hear a counter-narrative to why I had assumed everyone sees this band: to watch Harrington flail around like an art-damaged professional wrestler. That people would go to hear actual songs hadn't occurred to me. For the unintiated, live LSF plays upon a dynamic in which the band gamely plays its songs while Harrington finds unsuspecting members of the crowd to scream at, which as you know Mr. Little, happened to be me at one point this evening. I've always felt that the songs were somewhat incidental. Hearing this perspective was interesting since tonight's set heavily consisted of mid-tempo Road to Ruin material that's not nearly as spazzy as the older stuff. In this context, his antics felt a bit incongruous.

I'll also cop to the fact that, while fans did their part to keep up with Harrington's craziness, the seemingly half-filled room made the performance seem less immediate than previous shows. I've never really thought of LSF as a New York band before tonight but as I write this, I realize this was the only time I 've seen them outside New York. Are they more of a local/regional band? Who knows. It also occurred to me that LSF's shtick—a formidable, interactive lead singer known for their entertaining tantrums—is a bit more commonplace these days with the advent of bands like Double Dagger and Fucked Up.

In terms of the hijinks, what was your favorite moment? Was it the crowd surfing lawn ornament or the custom-made Les Savy Fav Heinz ketchup given away at the end of the set?

RL: Gave away?? Matt, the ketchup cost precisely one penny minted before 1984—that's hardly free. Though, someone gave Val from DCist a penny so she could buy one; I guess it was free for her. Between pouring beer on his sailor's cap, starting off the evening with celery in his mouth, fingering a fake snowman, and just generally looking like a maniac, it's kind of hard to choose my favorite Tim Harrington moment. After he screamed in your face and picked up a few drinking straws from the bar, I was pretty amused by his claim that they were sponsored and marketed by Old Navy. In a way, everyone's Les Savy Fav story sounds pretty much the same. They all sound totally unbelievable and absurd if you weren't at the show—a pretty strong selling point for the band. You pretty much can't leave their show without an "inside joke" of sorts, and you are guaranteed to witness another bizarre chapter in the bands ongoing mythology. Whether or not you enjoy yourself in the moment, you still win in the long run.

To your other point, while there are definitely more crazy overweight frontdudes now, LSV definitely patented that tradition early. And  I did notice the incongruity you mentioned. When they encored with "Who Rocks the Party?" it made total sense that Harrington was in a full-body spandex suit, and his sporadic yelping fit perfectly within the context of a weird, abrasive punk tune. There are some good, straight-up rock songs on their newer albums that seemed to get a little lost in the spectacle. Earlier in their career, they came across like an art-punk band through and through, whereas now they sound like a rock band on record and look like performance artists live.

If you simply look at the whole night as a weird performance piece that happens to be soundtracked by some Les Savy Fav songs, then it works out wonderfully, but if you go looking for faithful representations of their recent work, you may be disappointed to see entire verses without any discernible vocals. However, I will say, there were likely a fair number of more middle-of-the-road indie-rock kids there that may not have seen anything remotely like Harrington—I can only imagine how mind-blowing that would be. I'm trying to picture friends who largely listen to The Decemberists that might've been drawn there by a single off of Let's Stay Friends seeing a band like that without any preconceptions...

MS: I'm glad you mentioned that outfit, since that coupled with his weird southwestern vest made him look like an ersatz Mr. Body, a look that come to think of it, I think I've seen on him previously. Moving forward, I think his efforts would best be served by collaborating with professional weirdoes Tim and Eric. Okay, so now that you've checked out the goods, would you go back for more?

RL:  Good question. I mean, considering they mostly played songs off their new record, which I haven't even heard yet, there were quite a few tracks I wanted to hear but didn't. I'd still like to see them play "Blackouts" and "Reprobate's Resume" and "Adopduction" sometime...but I'm in no hurry. Let's just say, if I find myself at a fest where they're playing, I'll most certainly wander over to the stage they're destroying, but I'm not about to drive any great distance to catch another chunky strip tease.

Barnes opened Dream in 2001 at 1350 Okie St. NE, and changed the name to Love in 2005. Barnes and his wife and his clubs Love and The Park at Fourteenth filed for bankruptcy this summer to ward off creditors and to ensure a smooth sale. Love was shuttered for three months earlier this year, after a nonfatal stabbing occurred inside the venue on New Year’s Day. Barnes still owns The Park at Fourteenth, according to Alcohol Beverage Regulation Administration spokesperson Cynthia Simms, contrary to an NBC Washington post.

Earlier this month, D.C. Attorney General Peter J. Nickles objected to the $7.8 million deal over Smothers' tax issues involving The Scene, a nightclub on Adams Place NE. From The Wall Street Journal's Bankruptcy Beat:

The tax troubles are one of “two significant problems with the proposed transaction” that emerged at an August hearing before District alcohol regulators, Nickles said. At that hearing, the regulators denied Smothers’s request to have Love’s liquor license transferred to him from the club’s current owners, Marc Barnes and his Okie Dokie Inc.

The second problem, Nickles said, is that testimony at the hearing shows that Smothers may not have the financial resources to close the sale.

“It is the policy of the District not to transfer a liquor license to an applicant who has tax problems with the city, and therefore, does not have clean hands,” Nickles said in court papers filed earlier this month.

The ABC Board stalled the then-$7.3 million sale of the 3,500-capacity Love in early August over Smothers' tax issues and whether he could ultimately handle operating the largest nightclub in the District.

“In order for [the sale] to move forward…he would’ve had to pay that,” says ABRA's Simms.

He did just that. The “tax issues…was pretty much a misunderstanding, the filing process, and how they do certain things. The taxes were pretty much paid at the time,” says Love spokesperson Ajiboye Laosebikan. “We’ve done everything [the board] has asked us to do.”

Smothers, a D.C. firefighter by day, has hired Mohammed Jahan as Love’s general manager and a security team of 60. Jahan has managed Jay-Z’s 40/40 Clubs in New York, Atlantic City, and Las Vegas.

Under the new management, the club intends to attract a diverse crowd and beef up security, according to a press release.

“We’re trying to appeal to people who haven’t been there already…a broad demographic, [focusing on] people coming into the city that normally wouldn’t be here,” Laosebikan says.

Unlike The Scene, Love under its new management won't have live music—meaning no go-go bands, Laosebikan says. The Scene went before the ABC board in July over a  stabbing near the club the night a go-go band played. Laosebikan says Love may still play artists who’ve been influenced by go-go.

The sale means the $156,000 in delinquent real estate taxes on Love's property will eventually be paid by Smothers' Impulse LLC, David Masselli, the attorney representing the company, told WSJ this month. Love's 100 current employees will keep their jobs, Masselli said.

The club will be open this weekend for Howard University’s homecoming. A "grand reopening" will be announced soon.

Photo by enviziondotnet. Creative Commons Attribution License.

Morning kids. Looks a bit like rain today, and I can’t say I approve. It’s cold as fuck.

So my bi-annual quarter life crisis didn’t quite arrive this year. It was too busy freaking Gen X out as the Baby Boomers strut down runways–guess you really are never too old for anything.

I’m starting to think life is going to be one long crisis. In Sam Lipsyte’s dark comedy, The Ask, born out from the generation grown in the late ‘80s and ‘90s America, he writes: “Maybe not the glory of rushing a Nazi foxhole…but the privileged of our generation did what they could, like the rest of us.”

In his Times piece, A.O. Scott dissects the novel:

“We did what we could: the slogan of the underachiever, the excuse maker, the loser. What they did, at least on the evidence of Milo’s testimony, was smoke weed, argue about Theory, sleep with one another’s girlfriends and boyfriends and wonder what was going to happen next.”

Jefferson Starship (Airplane, Starship, what have you) and John Hughes takes a lot out of you. But really, it sounds like every generation in the post-(old)war era to me. Modern warfare’s given most of us a luxury unwarranted.

On to issues that affect our everyday:

Taking over the world one friend at a time, Glee, and disowning Arizona. Live operations to appear on national TV. McSteamy just wasn’t doin’ it. And who needs another boy band?

With all our time, we’ve discovered Toyland for adults! Everything’s better oversized. And of course, what’s better than inebriation? Selling your virginity in Vegas and being in a reality TV show! What better way to pay off those student loans and achieve that dream of stardom.

I always thought anything was possible. Sarah Palin almost became president, these girls are selling their virginity on TV–this shit is blowing my mind.

Have a wonderful Wednesday!

Morning, readers.

*Don't tell Beaujon! The Times previews forthcoming Obama bio by New Yorker editor David Remnick, makes goofy little gaffe. To wit, the correx:

An earlier version of this post misquoted Mr. Remnick on his comparison between the book and a New Yorker article he had previously written. He said the book would not be a “pumped up” version of the article; he did not say that it would not be a “pimped out” version of the article.

Dicey. But at least Harry Reid wasn't involved. (Hat-tip to Steve Kolowich. Who also composed the hed.)

*The Guardian solicits 10 rules for writing fiction from the likes of Margaret Atwood, Elmore Leonard, Richard Ford, Jonathan Franzen, Neil Gaiman, and PD James. My favorites come from Colm Tóibín (number three: "Stay in your mental pajamas all day"; number nine: "No going to London"), though number five ("No alcohol, sex or drugs while you are working") can't help but stick in the craw.

*Beacon Press hosts a contest for the most arresting Howard Zinn video tribute. Simple format: Read a pre-selected excerpt from Zinn's autobio, You Can't Stay Neutral on a Moving Train; upload to YouTube; submit by March 5. Could produce some moving stuff—though I believe Zinn would appreciate the irony thousands of people reciting an identical script on command. (Viz. the "Non-Conformist's Oath") More details here. (Via GalleyCat.)

*Remember how EMI was set to sell Abbey Road last week? Yeah, well...it's off.

*Time to dust off that little gray Mario cartridge—here comes the Steampunk Game Boy!

*Tonight in City Lights: Bullitt at American City Diner & Café.

“Chuck Brown's Long Dance,” last Sunday’s Washington Post Magazine cover story about the godfather of D.C. go-go music, was an illustration of the importance of editing. Brown’s audience? “30- to 40-something African Americans.” Later we learn that his audience “is made up of mostly 30- and 40-something African Americans.” Brown’s prison stint? “Back then, Lorton was like a school,” he tells author Robin Rose Parker. Later he tells her “Lorton was a schoolhouse,” adding for good measure, “It was like a college.” And what of Parker’s assertion that Brown’s 1979 hit “Bustin’ Loose” was released “decades before his high school audience was born”? Considering today’s seniors were mostly born in 1992, those must have been some short decades! But the problems with this piece don’t end with line-editing—you have to wonder why a feature on Brown got assigned in the first place, when there is nothing new left to say about the legendary musician, who rates over 11,000 results in a Google search for “Washington Post” plus his name. However! There are still some scenarios under which a Chuck Brown feature might be worthwhile reading, as long as the Godfather is still winding up the living. For instance:

Chuck Brown’s Global War on Terrorism

It is one thing to bemoan the United States’ purported use of torture on suspected terrorists. It is another to note that 24 is a really good show, and sometimes rules have to be broken to ensure peace. While Charles Graner and Lynndie England earned prison stints for their boneheaded prisoner abuse, an elite squad of undercover psyops specialists has turned CIA “black sites” into confession factories—and there has not been an attack on U.S. soil in eight years. Thank you, Chuck Brown.

Chuck Brown Saves the Redskins

Greg Blache didn’t fire up the Skins during halftime with an emotional speech that led to last week’s win over the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. It was actually Brown, who is secretly Sean Taylor’s uncle and has sworn to return the team’s D to what it could have been had his nephew lived. Blache is retired and living in Boca; Brown wears a full-sized suit to impersonate him on the sidelines. Also, Brown, working with Andy Garcia (uncle to Taylor’s partner, Jackie Garcia) is close to finding Taylor’s real murderer: a forensic scientist–cum–serial killer in the Miami Police Department who blamed Taylor for Rod Gardner’s lackluster career. First, however, Brown and Garcia must befriend the forensic scientist for several episodes.

Chuck Brown Invades Nashville

Bored with decades of love and adulation, Brown, a fan of Marcel Duchamp, decides to become the sort of artist who invites scorn and ridicule. Because it’s impossible for him to become a white reggae musician (and unlikely that he’ll consent to another Thievery Corporation cameo), he opts for the second best thing: black country singer. With Cleve Francis, Darius Rucker, and Cowboy Troy, Brown forms the first all-African-American country & western tribute band, the Charley Prides.

Chuck Brown, Consumer Advocate

Although his D.C. Lotto commercial is one of the catchiest spots of all time, Brown has never been able to work that marketing magic in an Eastern Motors ad. Brown’s talks with the second-chance auto store fell through when the the Godfather learned of Eastern’s tagline “Your Job's Your Credit,” because as a successful working musician who has managed to raise children and keep himself in luxury cars and silk shirts for the last 40 years, he is savvy enough to know that nobody’s job is their fucking credit.

Photo illustrations by Brooke Hatfield

That was certainly the case last Thursday night, when the area duo and about four dozen recruits performed the 36-minute work-for-30-odd-boomboxes while walking around the Dupont area. The music itself shuffled through a few movements and themes: At times it was ambient and aquatic-sounding, while other moments were minimalistic and percussive. My favorite passage was a chaotic assemblage of found sounds—exactly the "weird, electronic jungle" that Bluebrain member Hays Holladay told me to expect last week.

After the jump, check out a 3-minute video Bluebrain made containing some highlights of the event. The group performs this Friday at The Writers Center in Bethesda as part of the ongoing "Story/Stereo" series.

Also, YouTube user haetta posted this video of the first 10 minutes of "Cakeblood":

One of my higher-ups alerted me to your valedictory XX Files column in yesterday's Washington Post Magazine. Imagine my surprise to discover that it was all about me!

Surprise and chagrin, to be honest. Because your column paints a horrifying picture of post-college male decadence, including but not limited to 1.) gluttony 2.) a dependency on beer and 3.) suggestively redacted Tenacious D lyrics.

The backstory, for the eavesdroppers: last summer, I was out on the town with a number of visiting friends (also recovering college a cappella types). On our way to the Russia House, a female companion begged us to sing a thing or two; we obliged with a swingin' Jimmy Reed medley. Drawn to our unusual music, unknown women appeared on a balcony, offering beer and pie in exchange for ascent and song.

Free pie? We accepted.

What ensued was no more—I thought at the time—than a few nice songs and some light banter. Little did I know that we'd left an indelible impression on the lady of the house. Who, over a year later, would use the evening to bolster a coming-of-age narrative in the paper of record!

Now, I understand the nature of a column—you have to take your audience from point A to point B, creating symmetry and closure that may not have inhered in the events in question. So I thank you for calling us "college Romeos in shaggy haircuts" even as I forgive you for bemoaning the "salacious, operatic note[s]" of "Fuck Her Gently," which we sang with no shortage of grace or obscenity for you and your charming guests. So you employ a sly, extended Shakespearean analogy in which—over the course of two songs!—a rapt, girlish Juliet becomes a stiff, scolding Lady Capulet. Which, you know, good for you—but it does makes us sound like scallawags.

What you must understand, Sandra—may I call you Sandra?—is that I was a different man back then. Hell, the scene in question went down last June (2008—the year of the rat, remember?), which is why I was initially puzzled at its inclusion in a September, 2009 column. I'm 24 now, Sandra*, and I'm trying to think ahead. No more beer pong parties. Time to buy two sets of guest towels. Maybe vacate that air mattress on my buddy's floor.

So, apologies for the gross indecency. But thanks for the pie.

Yours immaculately,

Ted Scheinman

*As of two days ago, but who's counting?

Which is how highly regarded papers end up with concert reviews like this one, published last Thursday in the Montreal Gazette. The ignorance and complete disregard for the actual music is exceeded only by the blatant misogyny.

Still wonder why journos are worried?

From tonight's pick by Caroline Jones: "One part kitsch, one part political satire, and one part glitter, the Kinsey Sicks, describe themselves as “America’s Favorite Dragapella Beautyshop Quartet.” The group returns to D.C. on Saturday night with a new set of parodies, skewering everyone from Condoleezza Rice to Vanna White. What began 15 years ago with four guys attending a Bette Midler show dressed as the Andrews Sisters is now an off-Broadway revue that’s traveled around the country and the world."

Read the entire Kinsey Sicks pick for details.

Skate rock (Think Sublime's genetic material crossed with that of Minor Threat) is a lot like milt. Some people get a mouthful of the creamy white stuff and think, "So this is fish sperm. Not bad!" Other people take a bite, move it around with their tongues, and then say to themselves, "Oh god, I just put fish balls in my mouth." They panic. They look for a trash can, a napkin, maybe some condiments to amend the taste. They crunch up crackers and squirt cocktail sauce directly into their gaping, fishy maws.  When that doesn't work, they spit what's left into their hands and shove it in their pockets.

Likewise, when it comes to seeing West coast skate music live, you either like getting involuntarily spanked by drunk white chicks with neck tattoos, pierced tongues, and exposed muffin tops, and jostled by aggressive white dudes with melanoma, trap muscles that touch their ears, and tattoos denoting their area codes/favorite Stephen King villains–both sets drugged and boozed to the hilt–or you don't. God help you if you ended up–perhaps by invite–at the 9:30 Club last night for the Jagermeister Tour without prior knowledge that you were entering White Trash Central.

My accomplice and I missed openers the Supervillains, who've come a long way since playing house parties in St. Cloud, Fla., and jettisoning their trombonist. Smally is still on sax and Dom is still on drums and vocals, though they brought in some guy named Skart who has dirty dreads and loves weed to sing about, well, his dreads and weed.  (Full disclaimer: I was five years behind the Supervillains at St. Cloud High School, and after catching them live my freshman year, joined the Shoehorns–a short-lived Christian ska band–on trumpet. The ska stuff wasn't for me–I just couldn't tongue my horn fast enough!–but I did have the privilege of dating the Shoehorns' bassist and a diehard Supervillains groupie for an entire month, at the end of which she asked me to choose between her and my penny loafers. I chose the shoes. She dumped my ass.)

Though we missed my hometown act, we made it just in time to catch Las Vegas rapper Big B perform "White Trash Life." When he asked the crowd, "Where my white trash hoes at?", nearly every guy in the club raised his hand in the air and then pointed down at the nearest female. I didn't hear the part about the hoes, so I just waved my hands for the hell of it, which earned me a wary stink-eye or two from a group of dudes in fitted black ball caps and Tapout muscle tees.

Next up was Authority Zero, a Latin- and ska-tinged punk band from Mesa, Arizona, that's been doing this whole music thing for, like, 15 years, with almost no one noticing (which explains why it's constantly losing members to the Air Force and other Fuck-It-Time-To-Grow-Up jobs). After running through a catalogue of maniacal punk numbers, the band played "One More Minute," the Sublime-ish alt-rock radio hit from 2002's A Passage in Time, but declined to launch into their anti-Iraq War cover of Wall of Voodoo's "Mexican Radio." The highlight of the set was Jason DeVore's rapid-fire vocals and stage monkery on nearly every song, which earned him mad props from Pennywise's Jim Lindberg, who is too old to jump around and likes to sing really, really slowly.

Which brings us to Pennywise, the wizened grandfathers wise godfathers of California skate punk. Aside from a guest appearance by Minor Threat bassist/guitarist Brian Baker and a ballsy rendition of "Bro Hymn" (Next to Queen's "We Will Rock You," it is THE rev-em-up sports song), I was more interested in Lindberg's between-song banter than guitarist Fletcher Dragge's oversized and overamped three-chord chest-breakers. Unlike DeVore, who's consistently espoused an anti-authoritarian political philosophy since 1994, Lindberg is all over the place. At the beginning of Pennywise's set, he said he approved of Obama "so far," and that he was definitely preferable to the "last eight years of bullshit." Later in the set, however, he gave a shout-out to the military's work in Iraq and Afghanistan, and encouraged the crowd to give a big hand to the men and women of the armed services who are "over there, kicking ass to keep us safe and free," despite the fact the Iraq War is the bulk of George W. Bush's political legacy, and  hands-down the stinkiest bullshit from the last eight years.

In between those pronouncements, Dragge and Lindberg riffed on white collar drones and "emo boys who wear their sisters' pants." Perhaps the sloppy mix of anarchism and hypermasculine nationalism is a West coast thing, but it just seemed so...not punk. A drone's a drone, whether it's sporting Brooks Brothers and a Blackberry or camouflage and an M-16. Then again, the no-neck crowd might have gone apeshit–and not in a good way–if Lindberg had openly criticized the military. The band's one attempt at inspiring political activism came when Dragge announced–not two songs before "Fuck Authority" from 2001's Land of the Free?–"This song is for one of you fuckers, hopefully you'll make it into the White House." Isn't saying "Fuck the government, unless we're the government," kind of like, I don't know, Ronald Reagan famously arguing "Government is not the solution to our problem, government is the problem"?

Hawaii dub-rockers Pepper went on last, wandering onto the stage covered in sweat and wearing nothing but board shorts, and did their best to disperse the angry white-dude vibes by shouting "Poonani," and "If you fight now, you can't fuck later," and flashing the triangle/vagina sign. The feel-good members of the crowd quickly caught on, bobbing their heads like a flock of pigeons and shouting "I love pussy!" while the dudes in Tapout shirts left for the curb outside to suck down some nicotine and compare choke holds. The set's only downfall was that it was loud enough to harsh my buzz.