Ask the Horse

Annoyed much? I have two clubgoing companions who are always complaining about the heat. Consequently I am currently experiencing shows chosen simply because the space they're happening in is likely to be the coolest--temperature-wise, not hipster-wise. Which is how I ended up in a room full of guys with long hair and beards, all dateless and eagerly awaiting Japanese "prog" band the Ruins last Friday at Chop Suey.

The way I saw it, ANYTHING would've sounded better than the constant whining going on beside me about the cruel punishment of having to endure another moment of the scorching, 80-degree heat wave settled upon Capitol Hill. (I'm not naming names, but how a certain Seattle band managed to endure a certain singer's complaints for 22 years is beyond me.) But I was so, so wrong. Oh, it was cool inside the club, for sure, and next time I'll know to wear a bra incorporating a little padding so as to dim the high beams, if you catch my drift. But the less-irritating-noise assumption was way off, as the first opening band (again, not naming names) was a thousand times worse than any whining could EVER have been. In fact, I had to ask the doorperson (the lovely Robyn from the Peels) whether sound check was running late or if the freeform noise was, in fact, the band's actual set. It was the latter.

Now, I've been supportive of noise bands since I was a teenager--the heavier the better. But never have I experienced the level of scattered, not-within-a-mile-of-melodic, eyeball-shattering detonation that this band was raining upon a seemingly appreciative audience. (The mood was quite different in the lounge area, where some of us cooled our heels while others blew our noses and wished we'd worn a jacket. Conversations started, and then stopped abruptly as the sonic assault made it impossible to do anything more than writhe involuntarily.) Headliners the Ruins served up more drum and bass than anything resembling prog (not that I care), but on the whole they were enjoyable so long as I didn't venture out of the protective confines of the lounge in search of a beverage. The dateless throng seemed hungry for anything emitting feminine pheromones, and there is nothing scarier than a fortysomething guy with his shirt unbuttoned to the navel, bobbing his head to the non-beat while straining to focus his wolf eyes at you. One of these days I'm going to show up to bars wearing the custom-made mask I saw at Toys in Babeland. Its official purpose is to help you and your buddy play horsey, but what a perfect jerk-deflector it would make in the off hours! (Actually, taken out of the bedroom, the wearer might seem insane, but I've been called worse.) The full-head mask, fashioned of red patent leather and highlighted by perky equine ears, features horse blinders and flaps where human ears would be, two things I've silently wished for ever since turning 21. The snout is a bit much but would be fun to shake while chuckling "Wil-ll-ll-bur," and if you ask me, the $260 price is nothing compared to the peace it would offer those of us who are no longer Last Call Lucys.

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And speaking of last calls, less than a month after taking over as assistant booker at the Crocodile, Jenny Tsiakals has walked out. No news so far on who her replacement will be.

kathleen@thestranger.com