Sophie’s choice

That’s how I felt selecting these pictures — should I go with movement, action, and mayhem? Or should I go with cookie cutter pictures of a band, whose sound deserves more than concert portraiture. There’s the right way of doing things and then there’s our (The Whiskey Dregs) way of doing things. I guess maybe it wasn’t Sophie’s choice after all. When you’re getting smashed between the stage, girls fighting to kiss each other, and legs kicking the body of your camera, you realize real quick that photographing a show like this one isn’t going to be about about photography at all, it’s going to be about freezing the moment so everyone can experience some semblance of quite possibly one of the best shows this year.

Fuck cookie cutter concert portraiture.

Located in a former factory in Long Island City, Queens, 5 Pointz has become the Mecca for graffiti artists since its inception in 2002. Here is the result of a recent Dregs’ field trip to 5 Pointz.

P.S. I realize one of the pictures are not from 5 Pointz but a neighbor. It’s the one with the EYEEYEYEYEYESSS.

ZAZA
Cameo
Kanine Records

ZAZA is a New York based duo  made up of two members Danny Taylor and Jennifer Fraser, the latter formerly of then LA-based, The Warlocks. The band draws from the same thread that sewed Joy Division, Radiohead, and a plethora of other bands who’s melancholic rhythm sections and minimalist instrumentation provides the wind for many a-hair swaying fan of shoegazer music. The EP consists of songs like “Sooner Or Later,” which is reminiscent of a song that could have potentially found it’s way onto Radiohead’s Kid A.

Their latest EP, Cameo was released last year and is still making the rounds through the blogosphere with positive news of these talented musicians. Fraser’s punchy bass grooves and inventive hooks gives the mopey music the bounce required to make this band stand out. Taylor’s guitar work enhances the ambiance, giving the current for his breathy vocals to follow into the ambient depths of recorded sound. An ideal example of Taylor’s and Fraser’s blended orchestration is on “Arms Length” — a song that ties both halves of the EP.

Cameo is an insight into what this band can achieve. The words are fleeting to describe the thin collection of artists who separate themselves from the saturated and overrated pack of New York-based bands. This duo lifts the standard. It is likely that ZAZA will continue from this EP with a substantial album that will turn a lot of ears in their direction.

Release Date August 18, 2010

Track Listing

1. The Call
2. Sooner Or Later
3. Always On
4. Arms Length
5. Repetition
6. Faith In The Faithless

All pictures were taken at L Magazine’s Northside Festival in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.

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Based on a True Story is a performance series created from the letters journal entries, and emails submitted by Wreckio’s audience. This time, it’s all sex.

Watch interpretations of a one night stand that ends with sandpaper, a week’s worth of cross-gender sex, a Russian mail-order bride, a mishap with a  sponge, a bachelor party full of debauchery, and much more…

with

Randi ____, Dechelle Damien & Karly Maurer/Directed by Christopher Bamonte

Under St. Marks
94 St.  Marks Place (btw 1st and A)
June 24th-27th
Thurs-Sat @ 8PM, Sun @ 2PM

Doors open 1/2 hour before performance. Come early for DRINKS, CONFESSIONS, and FUN!.

$20 and $15 for Students and Seniors. Admission includes a free beer. Purchase at Smarttix

Stage of Studio B

The story begins in a building — a large building in Greenpoint called Studio B; cavernous, nearly empty, and there’s a girl who strums an acoustic guitar on a wide stage. She’s accompanied by another musician and he’s playing an electric guitar, picking strings, which howl discordantly from the speakers. Her name is Marie Sioux. She sings into the microphone from a seat, eyes closed, and she sounds like the wind if wind was composed of the elements of a voice box — all of these complex parts — but it isn’t the wind. It’s her voice and she carries her music sweetly. This is the first night of L Magazine’s Northside Festival. It’s like SXSW but it’s in north Brooklyn, comprising the refurbished neighborhoods of Williamsburg and Greenpoint.

It’s 2009 and I’m on assignment but it’s not for the Whiskey Dregs. In fact it’s for a music publication called Consequence of Sound. A camera hangs around my neck, rubbing against my press badge. I’m writing about this moment because CoS permitted me to republish my review in the Whiskey Dregs. In June of 2009, barely anyone would let us write about them. I never before fully explored this side of myself as a music reviewer and news contributor but writing for CoS taught me much so here I go.

The weather has held up despite some less than average cool temperatures. And it had been rainy. The press room on North 6th Street provided ambiance; the color green fell over the room from the Heineken adverts posted on the walls. There was free beer — free light Heineken beer that caught my taste buds just right.

I watched other press mill around, talking with each other. The Velvet Underground played from some ancient place in music history, now the soundtrack to this scene. Everyone seemed to know everyone else. I pretended to read from an issue of L Magazine, caressing my camera’s body. I was a stronger among photographers and writers, people well-versed in the music scene of Brooklyn. I couldn’t recognize many band names on the roster and only listed bands who’s provocative titles I wrote on a list of acts to review. This would eventually take me to many different venues throughout this region of Brooklyn; to back rooms of places like Spike Hill or Public Assembly, and the large gait of the Music Hall of Williamsburg.

My friend Mike caught up with me that Saturday. It was raining and I was inside Spike Hill, listening to the closing bars of Emmanuel and the Fear’s set. The rain had tempered my mood and I was feeling that dull lackluster one gets when alone for too long. I snapped photos unnecessarily just to have something to do then I jotted inane sentences into my notepad, hoping the words would inspire a brilliant story but nothing came of it. Instead I wrapped my hand around a can of PBR that had warmed from the heat of my clutches. I was glad to see the familiar face of my friend Mike, smiling; his face wet with rain.

With my demeanor already improved, we strolled around for a while, indifferent to the gray weather. Then we were in the press room, chugging on free beer. We met a couple of girls there, one who was hesitant to have her photo taken, the other was more affable. The friendlier of the two showed us her ID but the face didn’t match the one before us. They invited us to tacos and sangria. Mike and I found a press badge on the way to the restaurant. It was on the floor, wet, and the the first name was of the holder was also Mike. We wiped off the water and he looped the badge around his neck as the sun disappeared from view; entering into darkness.

The green press room on North 6th St.

The four of us drank a few glasses of sangria before I rushed to Union Pool to catch an act. Mike and the two girls would meet me there later. I rushed to the venue, forgetting where it was despite having been a regular about five years before. In my hurried walk, I was distracted by the going-ons in a square where a DJ was playing classic soul and R&B. People from different generations and races had convened, bringing coolers and lawn chairs and danced to the music. It infected me with sublime vibrations, which coursed through my bloodsteam, striking that part of my brain, and mingled with the alcohol until suddenly I found myself dancing with them.

Everyone was in high spirits in that green square. The act I was supposed to report was probably finishing his set at Union Pool but this was the real act. The smiling faces in the dark, infectious grooves reverberated between the surrounding red brick buildings, and envious gazers, trapped outside the small encircling black fence, curiously watched, too shy to join in.

When I found Union Pool, I walked inside a small room. Yellow Christmas lights hugged the edges of the stage, and a bearded man played on his acoustic rickety guitar, his name forgotten in that constellation of memories. He crooned, lulling us into a somber peace. I sat on the floor with his audience, trying to record into my notepad but my fingers and my pen couldn’t translate the dark wooden atmosphere or articulate the collective breathing of bodies, exhaling gratitude onto this lone man on the stage. By the time Mike and our new friends met up with me, I was in a different state. My shoulders had slacked too much to enjoy their company. I was quiet inside but I finished my beer and Mike and I departed from our new friends who we wouldn’t see again.

There was one more venue on my list to visit. Another writer from Consequence of Sound had already claimed the story but I had heard good things about Tune-Yards so I thought I should go in case the other reporter didn’t make it. Luckily she never showed. Mike got in without trouble. The girl at the front barely looked at his badge and waved him in. Glasslands is a great spot. It reminded me of one of those large artists loft spaces in Dumbo, with lovingly assembled carpentry and installation art placed on its walls. Even the bar looked makeshift. There was a second level, which provided a generous view of the stage. Mike and I got our beers and walked up the flight of stairs. We joked, enjoying our buzz until the lights dimmed.

The musician looked focus approaching center stage until she stopped in front of a drum; a ukulele in her hands. She didn’t say much into the mic. She began with a high pitch twang of her instrument, playing a melody and recording the loop into the pedal, which she joined with a stomping beat. I wondered, Who the hell is this? I prepared for boredom but then she began to wail. To anyone walking by, it may have hurt to hear this but being in that room, with her voice and galvanizing music. Mike and looked at each other, jaws open. Holy shit, she was good and by the end, this one-woman band controlled our bodies, grooving to her strange and unique misc; the stomping 4/4 on the floor beat — we all swirled.

Me on the left, Mike on the right just outside of the press room.

Mike and I caught up with Merrill (Tune-Yards) after the show. She was filling the trunk of her car with instruments and told us she had to drive to Canada the next morning, presumably for another gig. We exchanged information since I knew I had to somehow interview her for the Dregs. We were in contact for a while until she signed a one album deal with Beggar’s Banquet. A year later I saw her record in a shop in Williamsburg, polished and more pristine than the homemade copy I had bought from her the previous year. I liked my copy better.

There were a lot of great moments from this festival. A lot of reminders of why I love Brooklyn more than any other borough. The food, the music, the venues, the bars, the people — incomparable. It made me wish Brooklyn was still its own autonomous city; the underdog of its rival, Manhattan, just like its mythical baseball team that had moved west back in the ’50s. This feeling couldn’t have been better personified than by the last act of the festival at Public Assembly.

La Strada had just finished a fine set when I exchanged information with them for an interview when, from behind, a loud screaming guitar havocked the space. There they were…fucking hell, it was the Wild Yaks, guitars chugging and heavy drums blasting like firearms reserved for the coming of the Four Horsemen. I wasn’t sure if any of La Strada’s audience had expected this but the hair of the band’s guitarist flailed on top of his head and he was kicking and moving like a tornado fiesta of rock and roll. It was what I had been looking for — this dangerous musician winding the guitar chord around himself and striking through the audience in insane fervor. Goddam this is why i love Brooklyn. Its balls are always out there for everyone to see and the glitter of Manhattan is across the river where it should stay.

The article this post is based on is here.

For more info and photography, go to here and there or contact him at spinelli AT victorspinelli.com

Miami, FLA.

What do you think about it?:

My affinities to Miami are: family, cafe con leche, croquettes, tostadas and cumulonimbus clouds.

What is Wreckio?:

A group of friends that like playing together.

What makes Wreckio provocative?:

We take risks in our work, in each stage of development and performance. We offer each other the opportunity to explore all artistic facets of ourselves. Even if it’s a first for someone, we all jump off the cliff together. We’ve been around for over nine years and each process is completely different. At first, this was unsettling, but we’ve accepted that we are constantly changing and that works for us.

Explain your roles with Wreckio:

Each Co-Artistic Director takes on multiple roles. We each have strengths in different areas of the organization. I’m a Co-Artistic Director, playwright, actor (hanging it up for a while to solely focus on writing, but I’m sure I’ll hit it again), board member, friend, fundraiser, grant writer, light hanger, set builder, but mostly whatever I need to be in the moment to get things done.

Favorite painter:

I can’t think of a painter. Gregory Crewdson’s photography stimulates my imagination.

Favorite band:

Radiohead is my favorite group of musicians. I love that they are unafraid of taking risks in their work. Each album is an evolution and almost a rebellion of their previous work like, “We didn’t find the answer here! Dig deeper!” They always find something, explode it and move on.

What inspires your work?:

Usually hopelessness, but I’m becoming more mindful of the kind of energy I put out into the universe. My next play is still pretty dark, but there is hope.

Why so hopeless?:

I’ve always been sensitive; every emotion/thought is magnified and all consuming. I had apocalyptic dreams when I was growing up, I still do. I’ve spent the last eight years numbing and shielding myself with cynicism in order to cope with my crappy outlook. I’m done with that. I figure the more energy I give to those thoughts, the less likely I’ll turn out to be the person I see making a positive contribution in the world.

Best “I’m an artist and I’m broke” moment:

I’m adding an ‘n’ at the end of “broke?” I broke as an artist watching opening night of a play that I wrote and directed. It was my first attempt at both and I bit off way more than I could chew. The second to last scene began to unravel and I watched in horror as I realized how I should have ended it and that it was too late to change. I finally understood the desperate need to be swallowed by a vortex and never return.

Which play broke you?:

Gravediggers was a tremendous undertaking. I was actually in the process of writing Rooftops (one of the fifty versions of it) and then Bush was reelected. That night, I went into a tailspin of despair. I thought, as Americans, we’re all digging our graves and eureka, I started writing Gravediggers. Gravediggers embodied my disgust with politics, of my own apathy, and humanity. I look back on that time and I was extremely depressed, I mourned my loss of courage and what I thought we lost as Americans. As far as seeing my vision come to fruition…I had too many ideas I wanted to explode. It was my first attempt at directing and my first solo effort at a full-length play. I hadn’t finished writing the piece and we were about to go into tech. The actors surrounded me one night and were like “You need to finish the play,” so I went home and wrote all night and “finished” it. The next day we read it and we were all excited to have an ending, then I was supposed to direct it, needless to say I had no idea what I was doing. I knew the ending wasn’t right, but I felt like I couldn’t change it again because I would push the cast to a breaking point. I knew the one saving grace for the piece was the acting. The ensemble was extraordinary. As difficult as it was, it was a remarkable learning experience for me and the company. Since I’ve had time away from it, I am able to experience it with a great pride.

Okay but seriously…BROKE moment:

A few years ago I was working at Starbucks in Barnes and Noble, one of the many many many mind-numbing jobs that I’ve had in NYC. It was a real shitty.  We were in rehearsal/production of our first collaboratively written piece, Wrestling Porcelain. Rehearsals would usually go til about 10p or so. I would wake up at 4:30 to open the cafe at 6am. I would steal a sesame bagel every morning and house it in the back area. If I would have been caught, I would have been fired, which was perposterous to me because they only paid us $7.25 an hour. I’d drink my tall, double-shot caramel soy macchiato in defiance as my manager would turn her back, real brave-like.  It was around 2PM when there was this angry mob of CEOs demanding their grande, triple-shot lattes with a hit of vanilla and I just froze. An earth-shattering scream was ringing in my head, it was a real Stephen King ‘Carrie’ moment. I would look at those fuckers and try to blast them away with my stare, but of course I started crying . “What the fuck am I doing?!” kept ringing in my head…I’m pretty sure that was one of the last weeks I worked there, but it wasn’t the last time that I cried in front of customers at some crappy job.

A secret you’re willing to admit:

I peed my pants a little when I saw Radiohead in concert. It was towards the end of the show, Thom Yorke was sitting on the speaker, the lights were on the audience, eveyone was up and he just took everyone in…he held the mic out and we all sang so hard. He looked like he was really enjoying the moment…how could I leave to pee?

Wreckio’s (wreckio.com) current production Bail Out the Musical is directed by Kimberlea Kressal; Dec. 9- 12, 17-19 at 8PM, Under St. Marks, 94 St. Marks Place, New York, NY (btn 1st Ave and Ave A), $20, Purchase at Smarttix.

I wear this costume every year.

You still have plenty of time left to decide where to dress down into your sluttiest and goriest costumes. Every year we find ourselves doing the same shit with the same people and maybe ending up in a bathroom somewhere in Alphabet City with a bag of drugs and a new lover — but I digress. For this, we supply something new. A list to release your most macabre inhibitions while sucking the blood out of a stranger and sipping the marrow from your favorite drink. Delicious — indeed. Children and families need not apply.

5) Salem, MA — Hardly any city takes Halloween more seriously than Salem, Massachusetts — the site of the Salem witch trials of 1692. Blah, blah, blah — we’ve all read about that in grammar school but what you didn’t read about is that the residents of this village take their esteemed holiday very seriously. In fact, you can’t even get into a bar without a costume. Add nightly tours, graveyards older than grandma, and tourists from around the world and you’ll get that Halloween you’ve been craving for so long. Just get in the car and drive or if you’re too far for that, book a broom (har har).

4) Miami, FL — Unbeknownst to most of the civilized world is Miami’s penchant for an ass kicking All Hallows Eve. The streets of Coconut Grove’s Cocowalk are shut down for the night, allowing your drinking spree to continue unabated. If you’re looking to avoid the jetsetters and Miami’s version of the guido, then you’ll be in the right place. All of those glamor whores are off in South Beach riding the nose candy trail to the end of nowhere. Give Miami a go.

3) New Orleans, LA — When is it not a good time to go? The land of fine food, exquisite culture, and uber decadence provides yearlong reasons to visit, most notably on Halloween. As one of our favorite writers, Louis Maistros decreed, “Halloween is a perfect time of year to come. The weather is great, the crowds are small, and Halloween is more of a local artist-driven holiday — so it doesn’t become a big fat filthfest like Mardi Gras tends to.” If you’re not a fan of crowds but you’re a fan of this city then this is probably your best bet. Their costumes are reputed to be ridiculously good and the drinks are cheap.

2) Las Vegas, NV — The city of going-over-the-top has some of the best known Halloween parties this side of the hemisphere. With more money than God, Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and Bill Gates, they are able to throw all of their capital into Halloween-blasting orgies of fun and still able to make money from it. That’s the brilliance of pandering to desire and substance. As Whiskey Dregs writer, Aryn DeKaye says, “It’s fun.”

1) New York, NY — There is seriously no other place in the world that does Halloween better than New York. You’ll find many cities vying for that title, promising this and that but…no. They don’t have the capacity or abundant facilities to even attempt the feat. The common problem here isn’t what to do but how to fit all of the things you want to do into one night. Luckily, promoters and revelers have figured out a way to counter this problem — make Halloween a month long holiday. With haunted houses of different stripes, parades*, parties, zombie conferences (see: Zombie Con 2009), pumpkin ale specials, scantily-clad waitresses and waiters working the late shift, you can’t go wrong. Forget about New Year’s Eve. New Year’s Eve is so 1999. If you want a real celebration, you come to New York for Halloween.

*Try to avoid the Village parade this year. There’s so much more going on than that. It is packed, cold, and even finding a station to exit from to watch the parade can prove to be a hassle. Tourists, you have been warned. Instead do what the counter culture does and go to a party hosted by our friends at The Danger. They produce the best parties of all time.