In the week we discovered our inner spirit, that brutal honesty, the naivety, the brave warrior, the adrenaline that allows a mother to lift a car if her child was trapped under it, we learned basically that writers who are not named Kanye West are finished. Do you wear fur and full-length gold Snuggies and laugh at PETA while saying “Fuck your coloring book”? No? Then you should probably quit. Clothing is a choice! We were born naked!
Naked! Like Lady Gaga, who burned down Radio City, or Ebony Bones, who dressed like a champion at the Mercury Lounge. Or Jonte, choreographer to the stars, who played Andrew W.K.’s party at Santos last night to widespread joy and confusion. Beach House were just inert at the Bell House, but frontwoman Victoria Legrand has been known to make out in a Honda Civic or two, so at least there’s that. Too decadent? Try sobering Haiti benefits at Cielo and the Music Hall of Williamsburg, or fundraisers for Fug emeritus Tuli Kupferberg at St Ann’s, or the bittersweet farewell Just Blaze hosted at Baseline Studios last night for the once legendary landmark.
Speaking of landmarks, the city may shut down Lit for smoking violations, though at the moment they’ve snagged a one month reprieve. Less Artists More Condos got no such thing at St. James Church, where they were met with a storm of recrimination from Catholics of all stripes. And, in the opposite sort of news, NOFX’s Fat Mike is opening a restaurant in Park Slope. The timing makes sense, if you think about it.
What else. Download Burkina Electric’s “Ligdi” or Dinosuar Feathers’ “Teenage Whore,” enter the inevitable Vampire Weekend critical controversy (at your own risk, of course), or check out our guide to this weekend in clubbing, starring Amanda Blank and Dimitri from Paris. We’re back on Sunday night–tune in for our Grammy liveblog!