Party Crasher

This isn’t really a house party—the house itself is dark and
silent—so much as a weird-garage/hangar/shed-in-the-backyard
party. It’s an impressive setup, with a built-in stage and lighting
rig (the hosts explain that the stage and lights were all here when the
current residents moved in). Onstage is Tacoma band the Drug Purse, a
retro garage psych rock act in the vein of the Black Lips’ “flower
punk.” One of their number wears a robe (a dashiki, perhaps?) whose
vintage and psychedelic properties match their sound perfectly; another
wears a leather vest. They sound great—fuzzy and loud and simply
catchy, even over all the drunken chatter.

We’re at a record-release party for fledgling label GGNZLA’s new
sampler, a limited-run double CD featuring a shit-ton of local
bands, including Herr Jazz, Partman Parthorse, Pleasureboaters,
Seahouse, and dozens of others. Between bands, GGNZLA proprietor T. V.
Coahran hawks copies of the compilation.

In the far corner, none other than iconic Capitol Hill shambling
heap Slats is tending a well-stocked bar (presumably mixing pain
cocktails). He is perhaps not the strictest bartender—a bottle of
liqueur has somehow made its way out of Slats’s hands and into the
crowd.

Outside, people drink and smoke on the cold, damp lawn. One metal
dude pit-stomps around sullenly, while some brave souls intermittently
avail themselves of a porta-potty. The Greatest Hits take the stage,
and Party Crasher is torn between the uncomfortable cold outside and
the band’s unappealing glammy punk racket within (the songs on their
MySpace page actually sound like good, dumb fun, though). Nobody
wins, and Party Crasher leaves to catch a cab just as the cops pull up
out front.

Want The Stranger to watch someone gobble a handful of
mushrooms at your house party? Send the date, place, time, and
party details to partycrasher@
thestranger.com.