Jel from Themselves.

We arrived just in time to watch noted noisemongers Wolf Eyes end their set in a cacophony of disjointed drumming, flying hair and violent feedback. One particularly overzealous onlooker told us that they were quite good, though a bit rough on the eardrums...but the confused and slightly angry looks on the faces of the audience members gathered in front of the stage hinted otherwise.

We came to see Themselves, who were up next, so we moved closer to the stage. Themselves aren't all that spectacular to watch -- though Dose One's fire-engine red hair and the group's ramshackle slide show, projected onto a makeshift American flag with sixteen stripes, were rather amusing -- but we wanted to watch them wrench funny sounds from their arcane, heavily-wired equipment. Dose One is the trio's jovial MC, and his anomalous stage demeanor rested somewhere between a '30s burlesque barker Rod Roddy and MC 900ft. Jesus -- humorous but not funny, grating but not quite punch-in-the-face galling. Fortunately, his wild clown flow was the perfect accompaniment for Dax and Jel's outlandish scrapyard hip-hop extravaganza; as the pair laid down bullhorn beats and scaly samples, Dose dropped freak-beat-polythemic rhymes about cats, good people, the gub'ment and stark raving lunatics (clearly the apple doesn't fall far from the tree). Still, for three guys who don't really move around all that much, nor seem to have a solid game plan, their show was intoxicatingly irreverent and far more entertaining than live experimental hip-hop has any right to be.

Between sets, we headed upstairs (that's right, the Bottle has an upstairs) to check out the artwork and chat for a few moments with the fine people from The Wire (and wound up buying several back issues, but not the box set, 'cos we're too poor). Interesting stuff, for sure, on both counts. Local labels Aesthetics and Atavistic were also on hand, selling their fine wares.

Much-lauded noiseniks Black Dice were up next, and patrons were aflutter as to why they would headline over Themselves -- though the smart money rested on the fact that they're signed to shit-hot imprint The DFA. As they took the stage, they looked like any bunch of young, slightly frazzled hooligans you might care to name, and as they began to play we got the feeling that, just maybe, they didn't know what the fuck they were doing. Granted, one of the band's major tenets is that they never play the same live set twice -- and thank fucking god for that, 'cos it means that no-one else will have to endure the 40-odd minutes of art twaddle they subjected us to this evening. They had a drummer, but he rarely played; mostly, he just sat behind his kit and looked bored. The rest of us were forced to stand there and feign interest and/or comprehension. Do yourself a favor -- if you are intrigued by the band, save yourself the cover charge and smoke inhalation and buy a copy of their superb Beaches and Canyons LP. Oh, yeah, and if you're the guy in the Japanese baseball jersey who was stood in front of me trying to dance to whatever it was they were doing on stage, get a fucking clue.

It was late and we were tired and hungry, so we missed headliner Kim Hiorthoy, and for that we apologize. Mountain Dew and donut gems from the gas station down the street had become more compelling than another hour of music.

Article by Jason Jackowiak