Mike Watt & Friends: May 2, 2012 Le Poisson Rouge – FLAC and MP3 Downloads + Streaming SongPosted Thu, May 24th
Sunday, April 29th at Mercury Lounge
Artist Websites
- Quintron and Miss Pussycat
- K Holes
- Josh Dust
217 East Houston St
New York, NY 10002Quintron and Miss Pussycat
Mr. Quintron, celebrated Ninth Ward Organist and Inventor, is a one-man-band who often performs at his private underground club, the Spellcaster Lodge hidden away on St. Claude Avenue. He resides there with his wife, Miss Pussycat, who sings backup and plays maracas. Panacea Pussycat (PPA* member in good standing) is most famous for her puppet shows featuring the world famous puppet band, Flossie and the Unicorns.
User-contributed text is available under the Creative Commons By-SA License and may also be available under the GNU FDL.
User-contributed text is available under the Creative Commons By-SA License and may also be available under the GNU FDL.
Mr. Quintron, celebrated Ninth Ward Organist and Inventor, is a one-man-band who often performs at his private underground club, the Spellcaster Lodge hidden away on St. Claude Avenue. He resides there with his wife, Miss Pussycat, who sings backup and plays maracas. Panacea Pussycat (PPA* member in good standing) is most famous for her puppet shows featuring the world famous puppet band, Flossie and the Unicorns.
User-contributed text is available under the Creative Commons By-SA License and may also be available under the GNU FDL.
User-contributed text is available under the Creative Commons By-SA License and may also be available under the GNU FDL.
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K Holes
The K-Holes speak at once of the mystic and the cosmopolitan, the primal and the urbane, the earthen elements and their synthesized cousins. But unlike their contemporaries, the K-Holes' sound is not of the grinning, gregarious panderer. Nor is it of the bored or at-ease. Rather, it's the sound of escape.
Escape from the concrete scrabble of New York, that moneyed parking lot for the cynical and privileged; escape from the vulgar materialism sung from the metropolitan mouth; escape from the vacuous r'n'r pantomime that smells of mere vaudevillian entertainment in any number of the city's myriad dives. The K-Holes set these things afire, and in their stead, they proffer a wet hand, leading you, the listener, to another flame, a funereal white-hot pyre - one that promises more than sheer nihilism. One that promises freedom amongst cages of different shapes, sizes and colors. A way out.
Their abdication follows a natural extension of the atrophied rock/roll ligament - unfurling from H. Williams to G. Vincent to Larry & the Blue Notes to the Pagans, Birthday Party, Flesh Eaters, Scientists, beyond - colored, at times, with smudges of primitive ceremony. As we follow their traject [Read more]
Escape from the concrete scrabble of New York, that moneyed parking lot for the cynical and privileged; escape from the vulgar materialism sung from the metropolitan mouth; escape from the vacuous r'n'r pantomime that smells of mere vaudevillian entertainment in any number of the city's myriad dives. The K-Holes set these things afire, and in their stead, they proffer a wet hand, leading you, the listener, to another flame, a funereal white-hot pyre - one that promises more than sheer nihilism. One that promises freedom amongst cages of different shapes, sizes and colors. A way out.
Their abdication follows a natural extension of the atrophied rock/roll ligament - unfurling from H. Williams to G. Vincent to Larry & the Blue Notes to the Pagans, Birthday Party, Flesh Eaters, Scientists, beyond - colored, at times, with smudges of primitive ceremony. As we follow their traject [Read more]
The K-Holes speak at once of the mystic and the cosmopolitan, the primal and the urbane, the earthen elements and their synthesized cousins. But unlike their contemporaries, the K-Holes' sound is not of the grinning, gregarious panderer. Nor is it of the bored or at-ease. Rather, it's the sound of escape.
Escape from the concrete scrabble of New York, that moneyed parking lot for the cynical and privileged; escape from the vulgar materialism sung from the metropolitan mouth; escape from the vacuous r'n'r pantomime that smells of mere vaudevillian entertainment in any number of the city's myriad dives. The K-Holes set these things afire, and in their stead, they proffer a wet hand, leading you, the listener, to another flame, a funereal white-hot pyre - one that promises more than sheer nihilism. One that promises freedom amongst cages of different shapes, sizes and colors. A way out.
Their abdication follows a natural extension of the atrophied rock/roll ligament - unfurling from H. Williams to G. Vincent to Larry & the Blue Notes to the Pagans, Birthday Party, Flesh Eaters, Scientists, beyond - colored, at times, with smudges of primitive ceremony. As we follow their trajectory, running from the towering urban oppression, we catch whiffs of guttural noir in the honk of the sax, we hear the jagged swaths of guitar, we sense the bite and lust in their gang vocal. It's fueled, all the while, by a low, thundering beat of tribal divination. Their burghal séance urges us onward, upward, and we sense the fire nearing. But the heat emanates not from the flame to which we run. It flowers from the cleansing pyre that has devoured us from the inside all along: the one that burns us up and tells us to move - in any direction at all, in any way we see fit, consequences be damned.
The K-Holes didn't put the fire there. But we sincerely thank them for finding and fueling it.
-Eric Cecil
Members:
Cameron Michel: Drums
Jack Hines: Guitar/Vox
Julie Hines: Bass
Vashti Windish: Vox
Sara Palmquist: Saxophone
User-contributed text is available under the Creative Commons By-SA License and may also be available under the GNU FDL.
Escape from the concrete scrabble of New York, that moneyed parking lot for the cynical and privileged; escape from the vulgar materialism sung from the metropolitan mouth; escape from the vacuous r'n'r pantomime that smells of mere vaudevillian entertainment in any number of the city's myriad dives. The K-Holes set these things afire, and in their stead, they proffer a wet hand, leading you, the listener, to another flame, a funereal white-hot pyre - one that promises more than sheer nihilism. One that promises freedom amongst cages of different shapes, sizes and colors. A way out.
Their abdication follows a natural extension of the atrophied rock/roll ligament - unfurling from H. Williams to G. Vincent to Larry & the Blue Notes to the Pagans, Birthday Party, Flesh Eaters, Scientists, beyond - colored, at times, with smudges of primitive ceremony. As we follow their trajectory, running from the towering urban oppression, we catch whiffs of guttural noir in the honk of the sax, we hear the jagged swaths of guitar, we sense the bite and lust in their gang vocal. It's fueled, all the while, by a low, thundering beat of tribal divination. Their burghal séance urges us onward, upward, and we sense the fire nearing. But the heat emanates not from the flame to which we run. It flowers from the cleansing pyre that has devoured us from the inside all along: the one that burns us up and tells us to move - in any direction at all, in any way we see fit, consequences be damned.
The K-Holes didn't put the fire there. But we sincerely thank them for finding and fueling it.
-Eric Cecil
Members:
Cameron Michel: Drums
Jack Hines: Guitar/Vox
Julie Hines: Bass
Vashti Windish: Vox
Sara Palmquist: Saxophone
User-contributed text is available under the Creative Commons By-SA License and may also be available under the GNU FDL.
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Josh Dust
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