I was recently rereading one of my Lester Bangs books. I had gone to bed at 3, only to find myself wide awake at 7, and was fairly wired anyways on pure paranoia from having encountered what seemed to me to be a 6-9” long rat in my room. I had set the traps and placed the blocks of poison under the radiator from whence he’d come, but no matter, I was up and had a hyperactive attention span. Even now as I write this, I realize how much of it is Bangs.
Which brings me to the next point, which occurred to me after I put the book down: so much of what we read today in music journalism is Bangs. Everyone’s a critic, naturally, but everyone wants to get to that critical end by using these snarky, post-post-post means. I enjoy it; I’m particularly a fan of FADER, which employs the method well. But I realized that I don’t fit anywhere into this spectrum. I’m too earnest when it comes to rock, I love it too passionately to ever be less than honest. There’s an interview where Lester basically meets with Lou Reed to insult him, to get his goat, and it ends with “I never met a hero I didn’t like. But then, I never met a hero. But then, maybe I wasn’t looking for one.” It’s not that I don’t have the courage to step away from the subject and maybe punch it in the gut every once in awhile…or perhaps I do. But it has been this cloying sense of not belonging in the very arena I want to be in permanently that has kept me from reviewing outside of this blog, and updating on this wire as well.
Where today’s critics are lacking, so too are the bands. The bender I’ve been on has not been solely related to criticism. I grew tired of trying to keep track of 5 million little bands. I realize now that I wanted (and still somewhat yearn for) a BIG band to follow, to idolize, to romanticize it all out of proportion, to paraphrase Woody Allen. I genuinely felt disinterested with Okkervil River and Of Montreal and trying to keep track of the Wolfs and We Are’s and so on and so forth. It didn’t matter; no one outside of the major cities and outside of the 18-25 age bracket was going to care. And furthermore, the chances that any one of these five million bands having staying power was minute. Or so I felt.
When I first came to New York as an anxious, shy and overly sensitive teenager, I realized the potential for rock and my place in its speculation. I saw The Harlem Shakes first, wandering over towards the dark side of town, in the unfamiliar and uneasy territory of the very West Side, in a bar called Don Hills, who kindly accepted my fake Jersey ID. And I had the best time digging the music. In an almost-creepy turn of events, The Hong Kong were playing courtesy of a newly-formed PR group called +1; a group for which 2 years later I’d be interning. And The Shakes were good. Nowhere near as polished or dynamically amazing as they are now. But good enough to be possibly great. I remember being totally blown away by Brent Katz, who was I believe even a bit younger than me at that time (I partly remember hearing the whispers of him still being in high school, which raised his drum playing into an even higher echelon in my ratings). But it was at that concert that I realized I could do this, I could see myself writing about this, being here, drinking and having a good time and then trying to step back and critically assess my good time.
But, despite my unending love for The Shakes, it wasn’t until I saw The Sexy Magazines at the Continental nearly three years ago this coming month that I was born again. This was the band that I had been looking for, the biggie, the one that I could hang my hat on and believe in without question. I still have the grainy, horribly sounding video that I shot from that concert; snippets of “My Favorite Girl”, “Man O’ Man” and “Take Some Time”. And I still watch it, because it still reeks of the band’s dynamism, it’s thrilling live show. Franco was an electric wire that day, shaking like an epileptic and howling like a ravenous coyote. He was also out-of-control charming, singing half the time from the crook of Marc E.’s shoulder, nuzzling him with both affection and provocation. He was, from the instant I saw him, a star. You couldn’t take your eyes off him, and even if you could, you wouldn’t want to for fear of missing some outrageous act of showmanship. The Lester Bangs I was reading was in relation to Lou Reed, and it reminded me of Franco. They, in respective circles of the rock community, both represent this type of fascination with perversity. Lou’s is epic, obviously. But Franco’s was still there on the February afternoon. His lace-up pants hung off his ass, showcasing just enough treasure trail to make the punkettes near the speakers squeal with fervor. He had written the band’s name on both forearms in marker, and his shirt was stained beyond recognition. He turned himself into a human bowling ball, jumping off ledges, hanging off of his bandmates and richocheting off the walls. And beyond all the glitter was that voice, that piercing, distorted moan/screech/howl. How it hit any of the keys intended was a mystery. But its sheer guttural force could not overwhelm the beauty that lay behind it. Kick dirt on it all you want, but Franco’s vocals still held the shimmer of melody, and the dualism carried the songs well.
Occasionally I had the chance to peel my eyes away from the frontman. I had Marc E to the right of me, shimmying like a Shindig dancer and going off on solos that I had never seen before. Every so often, he would pull a trick out and parade it for our glee, using the mic stand to scratch it or a beer bottle, or playing behind his back. It was, simply put, cool. Very very cool. And his fun-loving, jiving stage presence complimented Franco’s maniacism completely. The two of them turned to each other often, and played off each other well.
Mark S. and Casey held the left hand of the stage under their thumb. I remember Casey being enthusiastic to the point of embarrassment. The kid could not stay still, and sometimes he would try vainly to imitate Franco’s heady stage antics, though they came off too earnest. Mark was truly the John Entwistle of the bunch, laying low and keeping everyone on point. Every once in awhile a smile would break out, but he would quelch it before too long, making sure he didn’t enjoy himself too much. Behind the shy stage presence though lay a great virtuosity that was recognizable even then. He was too modest a player to expose himself, but Mark’s abilities ran deep, and the sound guy at the Continental was aware and made it shine.
And lastly, we had good ole Brion Issacs in back. Skeletons hung from his drum set, which was absurdly high up. It didn’t make sense until I saw him playing, standing up to beat down the rhythm, occasionally sitting down like a normal drummer would, but thrashing instead of beat-keeping. His playing was right on point, but with the same sense of showmanship that Franco held. Brion made sure the crowd was with him at all times, twirling the drumsticks round like propellers and going off on drum rolls that made the eyes hurt just trying to keep up with him. His playing was close to mind-blowing in its originality and talent. His dynamism was almost the breaking point, as if this band couldn’t possibly hold any more talent and power. But he kept it cool in a surfer-kind of way, making sure that the tricks that were turned were never ostentatious.
The whole set was magnificent, as evidenced by the fact that I still remember it in some form today. That day was the match underneath the tinder for me. I really knew then that New York rock and roll was where I wanted to be, and furthermore that I had found a band that not only represented it, but could very well carry it out from under The Strokes’ shadow. Since that show, I became a Sexy Magazines fan and its near-constant hawker. If you look at my “band photography” (in quotations for the precise reason that it’s amateurish beyond recognition), you’ll realize that I tried my best to see other bands during the ensuing two and odd years, but that time and again I kept coming back for more Sexy Mags. I’ve lost count of the amount of shows I’ve seen of theirs, but it’s enough to warrant an attachment to them that goes beyond critical admiration. This was the BIG, the shit that would forage my dreams through the dreck that was coming out of the radio and TV. I didn’t care about any other band really, though I attempted to. I was a daydream believer and I really, truly believed that one day, I would be standing backstage at Madison Square Garden harkening back to that Continental show and wiping away tears at how far the band had come. I held that vision until the day I found out they had broken up.
You’d think I’d remember how I found out. But like most traumatic moments, it’s blocked out, nestled in the coils of my brain next to early childhood and certain middle school horrors. All I remember is the sense of loss that I felt. The sense that that was it. I still had The Harlem Shakes, and they were truly my darlings at the time I heard of the Sexy Magazines’ breakup. But The Shakes were the orange to the Sexy Magazine’s apple.
This was and remains in no way a sense of lost investment, of a belief squandered. Rather, it feels like the last stop on a trip that fulfilled almost every desire you had going for you. I experienced more out of New York through the Sexy Magazines than I ever could have without them. And more than that, I had the unique pleasure of watching them mature and change musically. They came a long way from that Continental show. Franco’s sense of showmanship changed; he tried his hand at costuming, and toned down the distortion just a hair so that we could hear that lovely voice of his. But the ricocheting still took place, and the occasional what-the-hell-is-he-doing-by-god-he’s-going-to-kill-himself moment still happened onstage. The other players matured by leaps and bounds musically. The guitar players in particular really evolved. Marc still had his bag o’tricks, but his sense of melody came through more and more, and he always interpreted the standards with a gleeful sense of newness that is incredibly hard to come by. The one moment that stands out for me is when the band first started extending the ending to “Take Some Time”. Marc and Casey would split off and solo, and then both would suspend the audience on their whim, walking up the chords and dissecting them until we never knew when it would end, and really never wanted to know.
Brion learned to sit down some more, though the standing would still come out at the end, when the shirt would inevitably come off. But his playing skills only increased with time, and the band was greatly helped by his editing of play. The drum rolls were still there in all their magnificence, but he was prudent, doling them out when the climax was needed and never squandering them for the sheer thrill of it. Moreover, his tightness of play really aided the new songs, making “War Baby” and “Sex.Murder.Music.” Later on in the band’s career, his dynamism (God, I must have used this word at least 10 times in this piece, but each time it feels totally adequate and applicable) helped bring Franco’s “Turn Of The Century” a pizzazz and swagger that made the song a standout.
The last show I saw of the band’s was at the Pussycat Lounge during CMJ week. I arrived wired with adrenaline, my first CMJ show ever. I expected the hordes of sweaty hipster masses, and was already anxious about finding a good spot to see the band. But as I climbed the stairs towards the stage, I noticed an eerie lack of wall-to-wall sound that I would expect from a packed event. As I entered the bar, I realized why: the place was empty. The band that was on was suffering enormously because of it; the emptiness coupled with the huge ceilings mounted to an inevitable havoc of cavernous sound. To compensate, they were over-amplifying, and everything just sounded awful. I was immediately struck with worry for the Sexys, because I had envisioned this event for them as their coming out with the music press, the point in time where we could all look back and point to as the pivotal role in their breakout success. Now, I was gulping down my gin & tonic with nervousness.
I didn’t see the band anywhere, and was sick of hearing the noise so I decided to look around the place in hopes of maybe seeing a stray stripper. Once upstairs in the lounge, I found something entirely different: the entire band slouched in the plush couches amongst their equipment, waiting halfheartedly for their time on the less-than-promising stage. Marc was his usual genial self, and never displayed the slightest sense of worry. But I could tell immediately in Franco’s face that this was not a good scene. I chalked it up to the present, but I see now that perhaps there was something deeper at foot.
Once they descended from their perch above the fray, the band took the stage (by now somewhat adequately attended to by a doubling of the handful before). They started off a little lackluster, in Sexy Magazine terms meaning a little less than explosive. But they were rudely cut off by the third song when the soundman shat all over himself. I mean, dude could not do his job. I remember saying afterwards to someone that I, devoid of all musical training, could have manned the system better than this dippy guy. Franco’s mic went out, the monitors weren’t working, and there ensued a whole host of problems that stopped whatever momentum the Sexy Magazines had going for them cold in its tracks. I bit my nails and grimly hoped for the best.
What I got post-soundguy-fuckup was more than the best-case scenario. The Sexys came back off the hurdle and hit me with their best shot. Maybe it was out of desperation, maybe out of anger, but the set that followed was one of monumental poise and talent. Each song was simply great, played to the utmost and performed with total charm and control. There was a healthy dose of new songs within the set, and each hinted at an entirely new and exciting direction for the band: pop. Marc E took the mic to perform what was my favorite song, a total pop hit that still had the distinct Sexy style and chord structure, but with toe-tapping power. His vocals were incredibly good, and his spotlight was supported by a vigilant yet generous Franco, who pitched in with some rhythm guitar. Mark S also took the mic, instilling his take on pop with some timidly great vocals.
At the end of the dynamic (yes, yes it really was, superfluous usage of the word or not) set, the Sexys held the climax until the “crowd” was buzzing for more. Brion tried to stand up and give it his all, but the low ceiling behind the drum set wouldn’t let him, and he ended up crouched in an awkward position that nonetheless didn’t hinder his enthusiasm. It was the end of a good, not great but good, show, and certainly the tying together of a we-pulled-it-off night. I was immensely proud of the band, and completely giddy with thoughts of the new musical directions the band would soon be taking. They accepted my exuberant praise graciously, if a little tiredly. I later came out of the club (after witnessing what can only be described as a decadent mess of faux-metal) to find the boys ambling their time in front of the deli next door, debating the purchase of snacks and anxiously awaiting a cab. When one came, Marc hailed it for me and, always the guitar virtuoso gentleman, put me in it and saw me off. I never looked back.
Now, as I write this, the band has splintered. Franco is off preparing solo material, while the rest of the band is cobbling together a new form. The best news out of this heartbreak is that they all remain the best of friends. Shindig is still going down as a Brion Issacs/Franco V production, and though it’s really nothing in my eyes without the performance of the band that initiated it, it still serves as a great time and a wonderful showcase for interesting art, good bands, and fanfuckingtastic hipster watching.
So what now? Now, I am at a point, a crossroads. I can do the thing I love without the band I love, or I can disavow the whole thing altogether, lose faith in the business and go into intellectual property law (which, these past few months, I was actually considering). But the breakup of my favorite band served as a wake up call for myself. BIG bands are only big in terms of the beholders. I can’t sulk and bemoan their absence; I have to search for them and choose the ones to believe in. The Sexy Magazines became larger than life for me, mostly because of talent and partly because of my devotion to them. I now have at my fingertips a City full of bands that can and hopefully will provide that for me. I came back from the other side and realized that this is what I want to be doing. I want to be forever in tune with music. I want to listen to it, critique it, and analyze it, all in the hopes that it will become better. The Sexy Magazines didn’t teach me all of this. But they provided the best few years of my life, and in turn provoked a passion in me that to this day still exists. It momentarily faltered. But now, I realize that if cultivated, it will continue as long as I do. I thank the Sexy Magazines for being. And I thank the City for letting them be.
Backwards In Time:
Long ago/It must be/I have a photograph/Preserve your memories/They’re all that’s left you-S.
Which brings me to the next point, which occurred to me after I put the book down: so much of what we read today in music journalism is Bangs. Everyone’s a critic, naturally, but everyone wants to get to that critical end by using these snarky, post-post-post means. I enjoy it; I’m particularly a fan of FADER, which employs the method well. But I realized that I don’t fit anywhere into this spectrum. I’m too earnest when it comes to rock, I love it too passionately to ever be less than honest. There’s an interview where Lester basically meets with Lou Reed to insult him, to get his goat, and it ends with “I never met a hero I didn’t like. But then, I never met a hero. But then, maybe I wasn’t looking for one.” It’s not that I don’t have the courage to step away from the subject and maybe punch it in the gut every once in awhile…or perhaps I do. But it has been this cloying sense of not belonging in the very arena I want to be in permanently that has kept me from reviewing outside of this blog, and updating on this wire as well.
Where today’s critics are lacking, so too are the bands. The bender I’ve been on has not been solely related to criticism. I grew tired of trying to keep track of 5 million little bands. I realize now that I wanted (and still somewhat yearn for) a BIG band to follow, to idolize, to romanticize it all out of proportion, to paraphrase Woody Allen. I genuinely felt disinterested with Okkervil River and Of Montreal and trying to keep track of the Wolfs and We Are’s and so on and so forth. It didn’t matter; no one outside of the major cities and outside of the 18-25 age bracket was going to care. And furthermore, the chances that any one of these five million bands having staying power was minute. Or so I felt.
When I first came to New York as an anxious, shy and overly sensitive teenager, I realized the potential for rock and my place in its speculation. I saw The Harlem Shakes first, wandering over towards the dark side of town, in the unfamiliar and uneasy territory of the very West Side, in a bar called Don Hills, who kindly accepted my fake Jersey ID. And I had the best time digging the music. In an almost-creepy turn of events, The Hong Kong were playing courtesy of a newly-formed PR group called +1; a group for which 2 years later I’d be interning. And The Shakes were good. Nowhere near as polished or dynamically amazing as they are now. But good enough to be possibly great. I remember being totally blown away by Brent Katz, who was I believe even a bit younger than me at that time (I partly remember hearing the whispers of him still being in high school, which raised his drum playing into an even higher echelon in my ratings). But it was at that concert that I realized I could do this, I could see myself writing about this, being here, drinking and having a good time and then trying to step back and critically assess my good time.
But, despite my unending love for The Shakes, it wasn’t until I saw The Sexy Magazines at the Continental nearly three years ago this coming month that I was born again. This was the band that I had been looking for, the biggie, the one that I could hang my hat on and believe in without question. I still have the grainy, horribly sounding video that I shot from that concert; snippets of “My Favorite Girl”, “Man O’ Man” and “Take Some Time”. And I still watch it, because it still reeks of the band’s dynamism, it’s thrilling live show. Franco was an electric wire that day, shaking like an epileptic and howling like a ravenous coyote. He was also out-of-control charming, singing half the time from the crook of Marc E.’s shoulder, nuzzling him with both affection and provocation. He was, from the instant I saw him, a star. You couldn’t take your eyes off him, and even if you could, you wouldn’t want to for fear of missing some outrageous act of showmanship. The Lester Bangs I was reading was in relation to Lou Reed, and it reminded me of Franco. They, in respective circles of the rock community, both represent this type of fascination with perversity. Lou’s is epic, obviously. But Franco’s was still there on the February afternoon. His lace-up pants hung off his ass, showcasing just enough treasure trail to make the punkettes near the speakers squeal with fervor. He had written the band’s name on both forearms in marker, and his shirt was stained beyond recognition. He turned himself into a human bowling ball, jumping off ledges, hanging off of his bandmates and richocheting off the walls. And beyond all the glitter was that voice, that piercing, distorted moan/screech/howl. How it hit any of the keys intended was a mystery. But its sheer guttural force could not overwhelm the beauty that lay behind it. Kick dirt on it all you want, but Franco’s vocals still held the shimmer of melody, and the dualism carried the songs well.
Occasionally I had the chance to peel my eyes away from the frontman. I had Marc E to the right of me, shimmying like a Shindig dancer and going off on solos that I had never seen before. Every so often, he would pull a trick out and parade it for our glee, using the mic stand to scratch it or a beer bottle, or playing behind his back. It was, simply put, cool. Very very cool. And his fun-loving, jiving stage presence complimented Franco’s maniacism completely. The two of them turned to each other often, and played off each other well.
Mark S. and Casey held the left hand of the stage under their thumb. I remember Casey being enthusiastic to the point of embarrassment. The kid could not stay still, and sometimes he would try vainly to imitate Franco’s heady stage antics, though they came off too earnest. Mark was truly the John Entwistle of the bunch, laying low and keeping everyone on point. Every once in awhile a smile would break out, but he would quelch it before too long, making sure he didn’t enjoy himself too much. Behind the shy stage presence though lay a great virtuosity that was recognizable even then. He was too modest a player to expose himself, but Mark’s abilities ran deep, and the sound guy at the Continental was aware and made it shine.
And lastly, we had good ole Brion Issacs in back. Skeletons hung from his drum set, which was absurdly high up. It didn’t make sense until I saw him playing, standing up to beat down the rhythm, occasionally sitting down like a normal drummer would, but thrashing instead of beat-keeping. His playing was right on point, but with the same sense of showmanship that Franco held. Brion made sure the crowd was with him at all times, twirling the drumsticks round like propellers and going off on drum rolls that made the eyes hurt just trying to keep up with him. His playing was close to mind-blowing in its originality and talent. His dynamism was almost the breaking point, as if this band couldn’t possibly hold any more talent and power. But he kept it cool in a surfer-kind of way, making sure that the tricks that were turned were never ostentatious.
The whole set was magnificent, as evidenced by the fact that I still remember it in some form today. That day was the match underneath the tinder for me. I really knew then that New York rock and roll was where I wanted to be, and furthermore that I had found a band that not only represented it, but could very well carry it out from under The Strokes’ shadow. Since that show, I became a Sexy Magazines fan and its near-constant hawker. If you look at my “band photography” (in quotations for the precise reason that it’s amateurish beyond recognition), you’ll realize that I tried my best to see other bands during the ensuing two and odd years, but that time and again I kept coming back for more Sexy Mags. I’ve lost count of the amount of shows I’ve seen of theirs, but it’s enough to warrant an attachment to them that goes beyond critical admiration. This was the BIG, the shit that would forage my dreams through the dreck that was coming out of the radio and TV. I didn’t care about any other band really, though I attempted to. I was a daydream believer and I really, truly believed that one day, I would be standing backstage at Madison Square Garden harkening back to that Continental show and wiping away tears at how far the band had come. I held that vision until the day I found out they had broken up.
You’d think I’d remember how I found out. But like most traumatic moments, it’s blocked out, nestled in the coils of my brain next to early childhood and certain middle school horrors. All I remember is the sense of loss that I felt. The sense that that was it. I still had The Harlem Shakes, and they were truly my darlings at the time I heard of the Sexy Magazines’ breakup. But The Shakes were the orange to the Sexy Magazine’s apple.
This was and remains in no way a sense of lost investment, of a belief squandered. Rather, it feels like the last stop on a trip that fulfilled almost every desire you had going for you. I experienced more out of New York through the Sexy Magazines than I ever could have without them. And more than that, I had the unique pleasure of watching them mature and change musically. They came a long way from that Continental show. Franco’s sense of showmanship changed; he tried his hand at costuming, and toned down the distortion just a hair so that we could hear that lovely voice of his. But the ricocheting still took place, and the occasional what-the-hell-is-he-doing-by-god-he’s-going-to-kill-himself moment still happened onstage. The other players matured by leaps and bounds musically. The guitar players in particular really evolved. Marc still had his bag o’tricks, but his sense of melody came through more and more, and he always interpreted the standards with a gleeful sense of newness that is incredibly hard to come by. The one moment that stands out for me is when the band first started extending the ending to “Take Some Time”. Marc and Casey would split off and solo, and then both would suspend the audience on their whim, walking up the chords and dissecting them until we never knew when it would end, and really never wanted to know.
Brion learned to sit down some more, though the standing would still come out at the end, when the shirt would inevitably come off. But his playing skills only increased with time, and the band was greatly helped by his editing of play. The drum rolls were still there in all their magnificence, but he was prudent, doling them out when the climax was needed and never squandering them for the sheer thrill of it. Moreover, his tightness of play really aided the new songs, making “War Baby” and “Sex.Murder.Music.” Later on in the band’s career, his dynamism (God, I must have used this word at least 10 times in this piece, but each time it feels totally adequate and applicable) helped bring Franco’s “Turn Of The Century” a pizzazz and swagger that made the song a standout.
The last show I saw of the band’s was at the Pussycat Lounge during CMJ week. I arrived wired with adrenaline, my first CMJ show ever. I expected the hordes of sweaty hipster masses, and was already anxious about finding a good spot to see the band. But as I climbed the stairs towards the stage, I noticed an eerie lack of wall-to-wall sound that I would expect from a packed event. As I entered the bar, I realized why: the place was empty. The band that was on was suffering enormously because of it; the emptiness coupled with the huge ceilings mounted to an inevitable havoc of cavernous sound. To compensate, they were over-amplifying, and everything just sounded awful. I was immediately struck with worry for the Sexys, because I had envisioned this event for them as their coming out with the music press, the point in time where we could all look back and point to as the pivotal role in their breakout success. Now, I was gulping down my gin & tonic with nervousness.
I didn’t see the band anywhere, and was sick of hearing the noise so I decided to look around the place in hopes of maybe seeing a stray stripper. Once upstairs in the lounge, I found something entirely different: the entire band slouched in the plush couches amongst their equipment, waiting halfheartedly for their time on the less-than-promising stage. Marc was his usual genial self, and never displayed the slightest sense of worry. But I could tell immediately in Franco’s face that this was not a good scene. I chalked it up to the present, but I see now that perhaps there was something deeper at foot.
Once they descended from their perch above the fray, the band took the stage (by now somewhat adequately attended to by a doubling of the handful before). They started off a little lackluster, in Sexy Magazine terms meaning a little less than explosive. But they were rudely cut off by the third song when the soundman shat all over himself. I mean, dude could not do his job. I remember saying afterwards to someone that I, devoid of all musical training, could have manned the system better than this dippy guy. Franco’s mic went out, the monitors weren’t working, and there ensued a whole host of problems that stopped whatever momentum the Sexy Magazines had going for them cold in its tracks. I bit my nails and grimly hoped for the best.
What I got post-soundguy-fuckup was more than the best-case scenario. The Sexys came back off the hurdle and hit me with their best shot. Maybe it was out of desperation, maybe out of anger, but the set that followed was one of monumental poise and talent. Each song was simply great, played to the utmost and performed with total charm and control. There was a healthy dose of new songs within the set, and each hinted at an entirely new and exciting direction for the band: pop. Marc E took the mic to perform what was my favorite song, a total pop hit that still had the distinct Sexy style and chord structure, but with toe-tapping power. His vocals were incredibly good, and his spotlight was supported by a vigilant yet generous Franco, who pitched in with some rhythm guitar. Mark S also took the mic, instilling his take on pop with some timidly great vocals.
At the end of the dynamic (yes, yes it really was, superfluous usage of the word or not) set, the Sexys held the climax until the “crowd” was buzzing for more. Brion tried to stand up and give it his all, but the low ceiling behind the drum set wouldn’t let him, and he ended up crouched in an awkward position that nonetheless didn’t hinder his enthusiasm. It was the end of a good, not great but good, show, and certainly the tying together of a we-pulled-it-off night. I was immensely proud of the band, and completely giddy with thoughts of the new musical directions the band would soon be taking. They accepted my exuberant praise graciously, if a little tiredly. I later came out of the club (after witnessing what can only be described as a decadent mess of faux-metal) to find the boys ambling their time in front of the deli next door, debating the purchase of snacks and anxiously awaiting a cab. When one came, Marc hailed it for me and, always the guitar virtuoso gentleman, put me in it and saw me off. I never looked back.
Now, as I write this, the band has splintered. Franco is off preparing solo material, while the rest of the band is cobbling together a new form. The best news out of this heartbreak is that they all remain the best of friends. Shindig is still going down as a Brion Issacs/Franco V production, and though it’s really nothing in my eyes without the performance of the band that initiated it, it still serves as a great time and a wonderful showcase for interesting art, good bands, and fanfuckingtastic hipster watching.
So what now? Now, I am at a point, a crossroads. I can do the thing I love without the band I love, or I can disavow the whole thing altogether, lose faith in the business and go into intellectual property law (which, these past few months, I was actually considering). But the breakup of my favorite band served as a wake up call for myself. BIG bands are only big in terms of the beholders. I can’t sulk and bemoan their absence; I have to search for them and choose the ones to believe in. The Sexy Magazines became larger than life for me, mostly because of talent and partly because of my devotion to them. I now have at my fingertips a City full of bands that can and hopefully will provide that for me. I came back from the other side and realized that this is what I want to be doing. I want to be forever in tune with music. I want to listen to it, critique it, and analyze it, all in the hopes that it will become better. The Sexy Magazines didn’t teach me all of this. But they provided the best few years of my life, and in turn provoked a passion in me that to this day still exists. It momentarily faltered. But now, I realize that if cultivated, it will continue as long as I do. I thank the Sexy Magazines for being. And I thank the City for letting them be.
Backwards In Time:
Long ago/It must be/I have a photograph/Preserve your memories/They’re all that’s left you-S.
