The Skin Trade

'member when I mentioned these guys? Let's refresh...it was in the context of Rubber Gloves, they were very small, they moved me to the core, there was a question as to whether or not my Heineken wrote my editorial....
Anyway, at least the beer question was answered. Fully sober, I attended another hoedown Skin-Trade-style, and I was again reminded of exactly who "The Man" was and that I was fucking pissed at him. And so it goes...they're still awesome. This evening we discovered that the drummer who was so tinytiny I just wanted to store him in my pocket, or a tupperware (for freshness), had a birthday today and is (get this) TWENTY YEARS OLD! For real. My age guesstimations are going horribly awry. Next show they'll tell me that the singing guy is in his eighties, the bass player is already dead, and I am actually only 6 and a half. Coherent conclusion: Anybody have any beer? When the Heineken was talking (see RGRS; below), I made more sense.

On the Subject of Awesome

For those of you who are interested (which should be all..what, four of you?), the Skin Trade will be putting in an appearance at the Rubber Gloves on Saturday, April 17. They'll most likely be the opening act (seeing as how they're neonates), so you can get there at 11, drink a Heineken, let their holy sound renew you, and be out the door before you have to sit through Jackson 8 or 40 Minutes of Hell (seriously, those are the band names; you can't make this shit up). What do you say, Freaky Jesus? Is a trip to Dallas in your near future? It's just post-holy week; you're sure to be resurrected by then.

Beth Marie's

I spent a recent balmy evening in Denton, TX. For those of you (and by you, I mean me) who are unfamiliar with the mini-city of Denton, let me explain that Denton is to Austin as a really smart fetus is to the muthafuckin' Professa'. We clear? So anyway, it was warm out, as Texas is inclined to be (at its coldest), and I felt a yen for some "homemade" ice cream and so headed in to Beth Marie's. I will not delve here into my passionate beliefs about the application of the word "homemade" to for-profit establishments, but I will tell you what I thought of the place. First off, I felt upon entering that this small-town ice cream parlor was unsettlingly bar-like: from the men sitting at the counter who scrutinized my assets, all the way to the hot chicks behind the counter who refused me service in favor of helping my male counterparts, who they thought perhaps would be more likely to tip when intoxicated with Rocky Road. The dim lighting may have been an imaginary byproduct of my general bar-infused-memory of the place, but I could have sworn it was fucking dark in there, man. In fact, this strange tavern quality was so disquieting to me that I hardly remember anything about the ice cream itself. Except that when one is anticipating a shot of tequila in a lime-rimmed glass, a scoop of Tin Roof in a waffle cone is not a bad substitute. Main Idea: In this honky-tonk world of high-speed telegraphs and motorized carriages, it's good to know that there still exist some things that make you go "hmmm.."

RGRS

Last Saturday, I decided to attend a concert. This concert was of the informal variety and was held to honor a band they call Fishboy. Yes, Fishboy: the band, the myth, the legend, dare I say....the legendary myth-band? This legendary band's informal concert (which might also be called a "jam session" or "rocksteady hoedown") was held in the somewhat less legendary and somewhat more informal Rubber Gloves Recording Studio in Denton, TX. This place is bad ass, be forewarned. However, the band, who I had actually never heard of, will remain unheard of and unheard, because I was exhausted early in the night by the absolute awesomeness that is: The Skin Trade. Maybe this is the Heineken talking but when they walked out on stage (or "bunch of 2 by 4's" as it is also known) I was thinking, "This band will not be awesome" and I was proved utterly wrong. Later that night, standing corrected, I instead thought, "That band was totally awesome." Again, this may be the beer, but I've known few beers to be so eloquent.
Their first song started out with some light guitar plucking (visualize: pluck,pluck,pluck) and some subtle cymbal tickling (shishsihsihsihsihishishishishi) and the vocal guy (or "singing vocals guy" as the position is also referred to) starting singing about flowers and sunsets or some shit. But then (oh just wait) the bassist guy who looked about 9 starting fully reminding us all of our respective genders by smashing music out on that thing as though the sweet lord himself willed it. Then the drummer, who was maybe 4 and a half, started drumming those drums like they were....fucking DRUMS, man. And the vocal guy, who hadn't even been born yet, did a 180 and started wailing as though the Man was oppressing him right there in the Rubber Gloves and he had to tell him to shove it at triple the allowable zygotic volume. My cronies and I were like, "Fishboy rocks," but then, it turned out that these gods of rockage were the local band and their name was truly terrible: The Skin Trade. We figured if the local band could move our loins in this manner, Fishboy is going to be off the charts. But then the next band redefined "sucking", so we just left. Our pride was scarred, our logic thrown. We were afraid we would start sucking by association and we just really wanted to continue to think of Fishboy as some elusive, mutant, semi-aquatic band. I think that was achieved. Anyway, the Main Idea: go to RGRS. it's the hipster/fundaddy/cement/ax-bearing/Vans-wearing/gimme-another-32ozCoorsLight swingers club that you've been looking for with a fire in your belly. Supporting Idea: Keep your eye on the Skin Trade. They are sure to moisturize your retinas, if you know what I'm saying. Thesis Statement: Fishboy. Live the Legend.