It finally happened. No, there wasn’t a revolt by a mob of trucker-hat-wearing Williamsburg trendies upset over a recent New York Times article declaring the hats so, like, over. At the Bar 13 after-party following the Yeah Yeah Yeahs‘ second sold-out Irving Plaza gig on May 8, I met my new rock-girl idol Karen O. When I told her about the Donnas wanting to beat me up over my dis that pitted badass Karen O against lame-ass Donna A., Miss O gave a “buck up, li’l camper” speech, which went something along the lines of “you tell it like it is,” “fuck them,” and “we represent!” I was in Punk Rock Goddess heaven.
However, I am not the only one who loves Karen O and the YYY. Marilyn Manson is such a big fan he went to both concerts, and Manson was overheard gushing about guitarist Nick Zinner‘s fret work, wishing he had brought along his own guitar player to watch the new master. We wonder if Zinner might be moonlighting in the near future? On the first night, scary Manson missed most of the show, but was seated in the V.I.P. section near Craig Marks (Blender editor, formerly of Spin), which must’ve been somewhat uncomfortable. Those with memories longer than last week will recall that in 1998 Marks was the victim of a Manson death threat and sued the singer for $24 million; Manson countersued for defamation—they later settled it out of court. The next night Shirley Manson (of Garbage) and Marilyn arrived separately but probably felt compelled—because they are both rock royalty with the same last name—to sit together in the V.I.P. area. It was their first meeting, oddly enough! Shirley came with Rolling Stone editor Joe Levy, leading me to think there’s something about rock stars named Manson and rock critics.
At the real after-party at Pianos on Friday, well-wishers, including ex-Smashing Pumpkin James Iha, gathered to watch a screening of the YYY’s first appearance on national TV, Late Night With Conan O’Brien. Downstairs, a trio dressed in chicken costumes called the Ssion (led by singer Cody, who designed the YYY album art) sing-shouted, while everyone scratched their noggins trying to decide if they were stupid or brilliant, or perhaps, stupidly brilliant.
Potty-mouthed Peaches, who is a bit of both, celebrated her sold-out Bowery show last weekend (with Sonic Youth‘s Kim Gordon, Le Tigre‘s J.D. Samson, and comedienne Marga Gomez watching the spectacle) with two DJ gigs—she played for the dykes at Meow Mix following performances by Cobra Verde and Paradise Island, and, the next night, spun with local jock Aldo at Adult World. The very appropriate secret password? “I want to eat your pussy.”
And, since my ears are burning, baby (well, only one ear, since I’m deaf in the other), I might as well let it blurt. I heard that Jon Spencer surprised the crowd at Maxwell’s on Thursday when he jumped onstage with Nancy Sinatra for a few songs in her father’s hometown of Hoboken—joining her in renditions of “Jackson” and the classic “These Boots Were Made for Walking.”
And the W.I.T. girls—who ditched one retro look (’80s nu-wave) for another retro look (’40s boogie-woogie) in a recent Women’s Wear Daily photo shoot—are the subject of a totally outrageous story: Supposedly, Larry Tee and the girls were headed to Europe last week for their three-and-a-half-week tour, but they missed their flights. The promoter wanted W.I.T. so badly that he put them all on the Concorde so they didn’t miss their gig at Eden in Berlin. (That’s $10,000 per electroclasher, folks.)
I also hear that the kids from !!! and Outhud are starting a party at f^&*cking Pianos called Anywhere Butt Pianos. The name is modeled after the “indie” T-shirts sporting the same slogan, on sale for a mere $88 at ISA. (Doesn’t the price sort of defeat the purpose, y’all? You know, to make social commentary on overpriced, overrated, trendy bars? No? OK.) At least the folks at Pianos have a sense of humor. The Tuesday-night jam will feature DJ Sterling Caller and guests John Pugh and Justin VanderVolgen. They promise a “unicorn derby.” I am not sure what that means. Everything sounds fabu—especially the location. (Sike!)