The Ark, Mercury Lounge, New York, NY, December 1, 2005

Two things to know about the Ark's lead singer, Ola Salo. One: he is a lithe sparkle-whore who resembles Bono during the U2 frontman's early days. Two: he can walk the catwalk better than that psycho Tyra Banks. Move bitch, get out the way.

The Ark, a leather-loving five piece from Sweden, hosed us down with sweaty glam rock that rang the bells of Queen, Spinal Tap, and their Scandinavian brethren Hanoi Rocks. Salo looked like a little bird perfectly painted with silver eye shadow and mascara, wearing a black fur stole and extremely high-waist pants. The two guitarists, Jepson and Martin Axen, wore black bedazzled bellbottoms and short black jackets with shoulder pads and a little slit under the armpits for mobility or to show off their pit hair. Basically, they looked like they ransacked the sale racks at Annie Sez.

There was no discount on the rock, however. "Rock City Wankers," "Deliver Us from Free Will," and "Father of a Son" demonstrated rhythmic strut and hussle while Salo flopped and flailed, twisting his darling hips to the crowd's delight. As far as musicianship went, the Ark weren't exactly deft but the songs' ceremonious choruses were singable from the get-go. Jumping off the stage and into the small sea of worshippers, the singer dropped to the floor and moaned, writhed, and rolled with unbridled enthusiasm. If he had that much fun with the floor, can you imagine this guy elsewhere? During "Let Your Body Decide," he mounted the shoulders of a very large bald guy who paraded him through the audience. When the band broke into the sort-of-sad-yet-jubilant "One of Us Is Gonna Die Young," Salo justified the suicidal tune by explaining Sweden's bipolar disorder: "It's dark for half the year, and light for half the year." I have issues with daylight savings, so I can't imagine that particular hell. With his hair in sweaty ringlets, Salo conducted a singalong and easily became runner-up for NYRock's Next Top Model. (For the winner, see bottom of page.)

Tim Fite, Webster Hall, New York, NY, December 6, 2005

Story goes, Brooklyn musician Tim Fite was born without blood. Then he was hooked up to a machine that gave him blood. Hmm. The very odd, very dynamic fellow is somewhere between an alien abductee who was returned to earth before all the experiments were completed and a neighborly idiot savant who rides the short bus and waves to trees. (He made the audience count his fingers and practice clapping between songs.) Fite's approach to making music is about as distinguished as his behavioral idiosyncrasies. He samples songs from mountains of dollar-bin CDs and reworks them, as he did on his latest album Gone Ain't Gone. Oh, and there's a picture of Fite with Ice-T on Fite's website. Basically, if Tim Fite doesn't bring a smile to your face, you are a sad, sad bastard.

Onstage at Webster Hall, Fite beckoned the audience closer to him and his partner who sat with a laptop and other musical machinery. Behind the two gentlemen was a screen that showed a somewhat catatonic Tim Fite sitting in a wheelchair and playing along to the live Tim Fite. See, this cat has multiple personalities that all fit perfectly snug in his matching seersucker suit with matching suspenders. Some of the time Fite looked sedated – head hung low, eyes floated in his face – as he dribbled his lyrics. Then there came the nimble homeboy persona spittin' a Citizen Cope-like rap-drawl while he bobbed and weaved like a prizefighter and his partner got funky as a human beatbox. It was like Kiki & Herb for a crowd of mentally challenged bumpkins. Eventually, Fite would flip on a dime to reveal an incredibly spastic and unstable individual like someone poured a bucket of fire ants all over him. Getcha freak on, country boy.

Independent Music Video Festival (IMFV), Pianos, New York, NY, December 9, 2005

It's a known fact in the music industry that a successful video can't be made unless it features swanky cars, scantily clad surgically altered supervixens, mesmerizing special effects, Harijuku girls, Paris Hilton's cooter, and/or a guest appearance by Diddy flashing diamonds the size of King Kong's family jewels. It's been proven by science. But for some reason, the IMVF insisted on existing and putting on a showcase of videos by bands from all over the world. Either all these bands are so poor that they could only afford black-and-white film or Pianos cocked up the projector so that it would only show two colors. My bet is on the latter. On with the show!

Pete Miser's "Scent of a Robot" featured some animation and footage of Pete's shitty, creepy office job. Diddy would have wanted to be cast as the little robot guy. The Album Leaf's "On Your Way" had blobby creatures floating in an X-Files-ish landscape. An Escalade with 25-inch rims would have really spiffed it up a bit. Wax Mannequin scared the shit out of everyone with its video for "Message from the Queen." The whole video was focused on some bald, bearded dude with a head wound singing the song like his life hung in the balance. The crowd's guffaws were audible. If it were Diddy who had the head wound, now, that would have been a success, I'm sure. The Castle Project's "Airways" was all about some tall hipster chasing a one-eyed teddy bear. If he were chasing a one-eyed Harijuku girl, again, different story. Shy Nobleman's "Baby in the Rain" was like a singing yearbook. All the little headshots came alive and started chiming along. Only Paris Hilton's cooch could save this one, and even then I'm not sure the fat cash cows up at MTV-land would have paid much attention. But bravo to all the bands and to the IMVF for putting on this show. It showed a commitment to those with tiny pockets and armloads of creative drive.

Living Things, Bowery Ballroom, New York, NY, December 13, 2005

Seeing as how they only played a 20-minute set, there's not much I have to say about my new favorite band and the winners of NYRock's Next Top Model contest. However, I feel it necessary to lambaste the lame motherfuckers in the crowd who stood motionless during Living Things' bristling erotic performance. Your lack of motion was embarrassing. I was compelled to apologize to drummer Bosh at the end of the band's brief set on behalf of your inanimate asses. If you turds are going to act frigid while sexy Amazon Lillian Berlin busts a move in his turquoise trousers, I implore you to stay home, gorge yourself on edamame, and watch Letterman. Otherwise, get nasty and shake your perky little buns so as to reassure me (and the band) that you are, in fact, the tiniest bit interested (and interesting). The end.

Send This Page to a Friend • Join Our Mailing List • Current Stories
Indie CD Reviews • Musicians' Classifieds • NYC Gig Listings