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Crap, I've seen a bunch
of shows here. They've ranged from horrendously boring (Elliott
Smith), to terrifically danceriffic (The
Dismemberment Plan & Soul
Coughing), to just plain bizarre. And that's where my second-to-last
show there comes in. At the Joe
Strummer Tribute Show, I saw some old dude jump up on stage and
sock the lead singer of The
Detachment Kit in the head for f'ing up the The
Clash's "Spanish Bombs." Funny stuff, but not quite
as funny as the short, ugly lesbian-fest that was the Sleater-Kinney
show that I attended with a then pregnant Mrs. Hipster. If the kid
doesn't have permanent hearing damage from all that screeching...
The club itself falls somewhere between Bowery
Ballroom and Roseland--it's
just a little too big to be intimate, but small enough that you don't
feel like cattle at the state fair. Granted, I still manage to stand
behind the dude with the top hat or the seven-foot indie kid with
the dirty afro. Come to think of it, we managed to find the only dudes
in the place at the last show, and they happen to be banker fucks
that thought a night of girl power, Budweiser, cell phone calls and
drunken high-fives would somehow interest the rest of us. Despite
the frat dicks, Irving Plaza is relatively cozy, has an uncrowded
upstairs bar that for some reason people avoid, and still tends to
keep their ticket prices reasonable. While I still prefer Bowery Ballroom
for all of it's indie cred, this joint is perfectly acceptable, and
not a bad place to spend an evening trying to stop the blood in your
ears from pounding. [MF]
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