The Automatik

The Shim Sham Club
February 2, 2002

Yet another one of my “I’m not that big of a fan but I know I can’t miss this” shows. Seems like those are all the shows I go to lately. But they all turn out to be pretty interesting and mostly enjoyable, at least.

Many many thanks go to Chris for putting me on the list. Not really for the lifting of an albeit small financial burden, but for the freedom to not have to wait in line with the others. Unfortunately, I waited in the wrong line anyway. The two Patagonia-clad prepster types in front of me were actually nice, even though one of them described “The Strokes” as a regurgitated New York Dolls. WTF? Okay, Television, maybe. Richard Hell, sort of. But the Dolls? Has he ever even HEARD the New York Dolls? Or did he just read this in SPIN?

I finally made it up to the front only to be told by Chris the bouncer that the WILL CALL line was on the side. D’oh! I breezed down a nearly empty hallway to the frazzled-looking Morgan, who, despite his apparent exhaustion, looked quite dapper in his vintage letterman’s jacket and fedora. Snappy! Vote Morgan Higby for Student Council President.

The band was doing their sound check so I approached the bar for the requisite beer. And there was Laura! And there was Joey! Joey is a huge glam rock fan and he rarely works Saturday nights anymore. So that made me quite happy. There was chit, there was chat and then the diehards scrambled in and claimed the front two “rows” near the stage. SRO, my friends, SRO.

Then DJ Rhoades sauntered in and we hung out for a bit and discussed the potential stalker quality of the lone fellow leaning against the wall. He was an intriguing combination of The Strokes and The Sweathogs. See, someone described the Strokes in a show review as looking suspiciously like modernized Sweathogs, probably the best reference yet and also the one that rings truest. Julian Casablancas is the prettier Vinnie Barbarino, while Fab Moretti and Albert Hammond split the Epstein factor. Of course Nick Valensi and Nikolai Fraiture don’t really represent either Washington or Horshack, but that’s just a small detail.

This loner was wearing flared jeans. I must tell you that this factor alone made him interesting. There are plenty of odd-looking, scruffy indie looking boys in this town and not one of them wears bellbottoms. He also had a denim coat, not a Levi’s jacket, but a blazer. A bebop cap and a scarf completed the look. But I couldn’t tell if his solitude was a result of him being too cool for school or simply crazy, so I tried to avoid eye contact.

The opening band had nothing at all to do with the off-kilter power pop dynamic that is The Breeders. Named Suplecs (which is apparently a wrestling move) they hit the stage and immediately my nostrils were filled with the scent of stale, spilled bongwater. Rhoades agreed with this assessment as well as my comment that they seemed to acquire their fashion sense from the Butthole Surfers’ Gibby Hayes. “I’m terrified of that man,” I added. “If I saw him in a dark alley, I’d run!” “Yes,” Rhoades agreed. “So would I. But first I’d leave behind a bottle of shampoo for him to use.” What a card!

Every tune, every devil horns hand gesture, every bit of between-song banter was like a clich� from the Stoner Rock Handbook. I mean, Suplecs is an okay band, but I prefer Fu Manchu or the Melvins, myself. “This next song is called White Devil!” shouted the singer. But of COURSE it is! “We’re playing Checkpoint Charlie’s on Mardi Gras day for FREE!” he added. But of COURSE you are! What other band would slug it out amongst the boozehounds and the freaks in one of the skankiest clubs in the French Quarter? “We’re gonna go smoke some acid!” the singer bragged. Yeah, and I’m going to go shoot up some pot. What does that even mean? (Obviously The Breeders were amused cos they kept saying it and laughing throughout their subsequent set.)

Yawn. When they finally ended, the crowd seemed to increase exponentially. Claustrophobia reigned supreme. I’ve never seen the Shim Sham so packed, except maybe on 80s night, but all the barstools and tables had been moved, so there was even more room for sweaty bodies. I found a corner near the stair of the first “level” of the floor in front of the bar.

The show was good, a little haphazard, but good. Until some idiot “tripped” on the stair and splashed half her drink in my EYE and down the left side of my face. She didn’t even notice or care. I tapped her gingerly on the arm. “Next time, can you try not to spill your drink in my eye?” She huffed and bitchily retorted with the most inappropriate and untrue excuse ever. “Well, I come here all the time,” she griped, “And these stairs are really easy to trip over. I didn’t do it on purpose.”

Hmmm, well, honey, since you are a “regular” (interesting that I never saw her there before), I guess you could just go murder someone and it would be excused. All she had to do was apologize. If I spilled my drink in someone’s face, you can bet I’d sure be kissing their ass and feeling like a total heel.

The show was okay: terribly unrehearsed, and not in a rock ‘n’ roll way. I barely knew any of the songs, but they were good. I wish it hadn’t been so crowded and that my feet hadn’t hurt so much, though. I do totally dig Kim and Kelley Deal’s vocals and harmonies. It makes me cherish The Pixies even more. The show ended and the crowd cleared out in a flash. There were no patrons after 2:00 a.m. which is rare even on a slow Saturday night of “Glitter.” I think Morgan’s exhaustion and annoyance showed through by the fact that he played “A Fifth of Beethoven.” He picked up the slack a bit when a NY Times reporter and photographer showed up and cleared the dance floor by insisting that no one come near as they snapped action photos of the band attired in brightly colored feather boas. The Stooges, KISS and Richard Hell were played, but then I knew he’d reached his limit when “The Bare Necessities” came on. Yes, THAT one. So I left soon after and went home to a slice of leftover pizza and my sleepy, snuggly dog. An okay night, I suppose, but I can’t help wishing it was Sloan I was seeing instead. Ah, one day. One day.