Watching Non-Kardashian Television In 2012 And Beyond

If you’re reading Swervewolf, you probably don’t have a television set. Or you have one but you keep it tucked away somewhere. Or you sold it for crack. Or your friend who was staying at your spot sold it for crack. At any rate, sorry. You don’t have a television. But you do probably have a laptop. It’s probably modern enough that you can stream video on it. You were probably really sad when you finally scrounged up enough money to pay for that Megavideo premium subscription, only to find out that the Feds are busier busting people who are sharing the season finale of “Game of Thrones” than they are snagging people committing real crimes.

Another thing: if you’re reading Swervewolf, you probably like to take drugs and surf YouTube. Or just surf YouTube. Or fall into a k-hole of clicking through where you started with a live Fleetwood Mac video and ended up somewhere in the back room of the internet, staring down videos of professional cloggers and foot fetishists. And though you’ve not yet realized it, you’d prefer to make sense of that journey. Or have a willing guide select all the best videos of foot fetishists, professional cloggers, and acclaimed intellectual WASPs and throw them together in a method that makes you feel equally smart and unpretentious.

Enter Network Awesome, which is the proud baby of DJ Donna Summer and a fancy scientist. I do something for them but even if I didn’t, I’d be telling you to go see their redesign. The site has been around for a little over a year and just got one hell of a facelift. Which means you can find impeccably-curated content even easier than you could originally. There’s really everything. Collections of Errol Morris First Person documentaries. A movie a day that doesn’t suck. Live Music Shows curated by minor and major celebrities. It’s like watching MTV when it was good, like having a particularly engaging conversation with someone who knows just a little bit more than you but isn’t a total dick about it. So go. Click around. Get sucked in. And enjoy the fact that it’s a safe space free of Kardashians, Mob Wives, and anyone from Jersey Shore.

Dry-Humping The Hipster Underbelly of Buenos Aires (For ART)

Daaaaaaamn girl.

If you’re like me and so many other attractive youngsters confused about whether or not this Comic Sans thing is FOR REAL, you probably are reading Swervewolf for the articles. And if you run with our pack, your magical powers to paw your way to the front of the line (or ask the very question “what line?”) and enter a glorious world filled with fit young things doing edgy art stuff should be easy. No addresses, no contraseñas en la puerta, no blowing every art student at IUNA in feeble hopes of them dragging you to the next You Are Negra. You’ve already got it made.

But alas, some do not. And for those unfortunate souls, the very generous, very foxy, and very bearded duo of Lorenzo “Lolo” Anzoátegui and Lautaro “Lauti” Caminovich came up with a reasonable solution: an installation project called Hipsterísima, designed to mimic all of the good parts of contemporary nightlife in Buenos Aires. Through their ample connections and perhaps the promise of a few sexual favors, the city’s most famous and fabulous scenesters, indie filmmakers, clandestine club operators, photographers, models, and DJs were actually corralled together, given BLOCKING (this is the THEATER, after all) and told their according motivation.

So for four magical nights this very sweaty summer, regular people, the kind who stand in lines at doors and actually get turned away (and a few cooler others) were guided like curious anthropologists on a safari to the very sexy underbelly of Buenos Aires nightlife. All of the tropes were well-attended to, meaning that for those brief 15 minutes of exploration, everything from piles of “cocaine” to public sex and frenzied photoshooting were finally almost within one’s grasp, only to be cruelly yanked away at the end, like Lucy removing a hot young tattooed football and watching Charlie Brown wipe out. But at least there were those magical five moments on the dancefloor, a feeling of belonging, and–thank god–a program that named all of the participants, meaning next time, those unfortunate few who don’t have an “in” can try name-dropping one of the 30…well, I guess they’re fucking hipsters, aren’t they? Shit.

Photo by Whiskii

The Hunt FOr D.B. COoper COntest by Geoff gray

"I have a bomb in my briefcase. I will use it if necessary. I want you to sit next to me. You are being hijacked."

Geoff Gray is what many would call a true newsman.

The New York Magazine reporter, comrade, and North American person I can handily smoke in North American basketball, recently wrote a book about a mystery that has enthralled America since the Seventies, about a daring fellow who walked onto a jet plane wearing a suit, stuck up the jet plane, ordered himself a bourbon and seven up, pinched a stewardess’ nipple, turned her into a nun, threw the loot in a briefcase, demanded the pilot fly at a specifically low altitude, then jumped off into the abyss somewhere over the pacific northwest…never to be heard from again (again, again…faint echo…echo…echo…)

All while wearing a suit and a pair of shades.

Naturally, witnesses described him as a Hispanic male, age 42.

And just as the Hispanics are elusive, slippery and slick both in flight, on water and when cutting up the your local dancefloor, so too was D.B. Cooper never apprehended by proper authorities. Needless to say they never found the cash, which I’m guessing was dropped on more bourbon, seven up and Portland-area hookers. Since then, songs have been written about the dude, speculation has been speculated, and some kooks have even stepped forward to claim they know who DB Cooper was and that he was their dad and or crazy uncle.

Though chances are high that he was in fact someone’s crazy uncle, the FBI has debunked all specific crazy uncle theories to date, and the case remains open. Matter of fact it’s the only unsolved hijacking in the history of the United States. Gray’s book brings in compelling new evidence (I’m hoping), but more importantly, he’s providing crackpot conspiracy theorists with free time on their hands and Adobe photoshop (which go hand in hand) to design a Hunt for D.B. Cooper t-shirt, in order to promote the readings he’s doing around the country for his book tour. The winners will get…nothing, per Huntfordbcooper.com, Geoff’s book site. Nothin’? Just the crust? This seemed very un-D.B. cooper-like to me, so in the spirit of the elusive seventies Latin skybandit, I am going to run a contest on top of Geoff Gray’s contest called the DB COOPER DOUBLE OF NOTHIN T-SHIRT CONTEST**

Here are my two entries.

Even on stick ups im the masked avenger Keep my eyes open and the case closed No eyewitnesses no names I expose

Two of America's Most Wanted

**Winners don’t get shit.

Interns Now Pay to get Sexually Harrr-Assed en America Latina

A cultural moment

European and North American college kids eager to get some first hand knowledge of Latin America’s unique sexual harassment policies are flocking to the likes of Buenos Aires, Medellin and Santiago de Chile, according to a CNN report. Bright-eyed undergrads from London and New York claim their experiences at top Latin American law firms, investment banks and advertising firms are showing them another, dynamic side of Latin America’s business culture and office politics. “It’s quite interesting to learn about another country’s judicial system,” explained a young Brit interning at a major B.A. firm, “while my boss caresses my knee.”

According to the CNN report, new intern placement companies like Intern Latin America have popped up to satisfy demand in this growing travel market. And they’ve been exceptionally well received on the Latin American corporate side as well. One partner at an elite Latin American accounting firm explained, “Vienen estas minitas a laburar de Inglaterra, de Dinamarca, Francesitas, de Boston, de Nueva York….El otro dia vino una Sueca tremenda, veinte añitos. Un bombon. Y encima no hay que garparles. Que las sigan mandando.” The 47-year-old executive continued, “Please. Keep them coming.”

Atarlo Con A-Trak: Pawing the Decks in South America

Alain “A-Trak” Macklovitch is many things. Partially responsible for a sonic ode to Swervewolf. Both Canadian and Jewish. Adorable in baby turntablist form. Blessed with excellent table manners, even when the restaurant is playing an endless loop of Red Hot Chili Peppers. Like us, he’s an occasional BlackBook contributor. And now A-Trak, like a certain Swervewolf operative, may add the title of “Niceto headliner” to his list of accomplishments after Wednesday’s show in Buenos Aires (where it’s summer and sunny and beautiful outside, in case you forgot).

But even being famous/half of Duck Sauce/Twitter besties with Diplo doesn’t mean you stop learning. And that’s what DJing for a wound-up crowd in a city far from your own home is all about: life lessons. Here are the most poignant, freshly gleaned from A-Trak’s set.

Porteño concertgoers under 30 who were not weaned on hip-hop do not understand that noise when the record gets pulled back and forth. Which is too bad, since that was some very nice scratching (typing that sentence should come with a free pair of madras shorts and a round-trip ticket to Martha’s Vineyard on the ferry, that’s like some WASP-level whiteness right there).

No one in Buenos Aires has heard that Jay-Z and Kanye record yet. No, really. That’s why everyone was staring confusedly when something that didn’t sound like deep house or electro pop suddenly started blaring from the speakers. A quick recovery and speedy transition had everything right with the world again.

The Undertones party may be the most heterosexual male gathering place in all of Buenos Aires. It makes the Boca Juniors locker room look “artistic.” This is less of a lesson for A-Trak and more of a lesson for Munk, who, THANK GOD, played some Crystal Waters.

If A-Trak comes back in another two years, everything he did onstage that didn’t work this time will be well-received, since everyone who saw him went immediately home to rip off his style. Because that, my friend, is the Argentine way.

“They’re playing our song, get your paws up.”

BETTER THAN CATS: Broadway’s Longest RUnning Musical Keeps on Trucking

Jazz Hands, Wolf Hands: Fossewolf Rides Anew

SO SPEAKING OF ART BASEL, WE HEAR Broadway’s longest running musical “Les Swervewolfables” keeps on trucking along despite a last second change of venue to a new theater a few blocks down the Great White Way. Swervewolfables producers cited security and STD concerns in light of the new production of “Fiddler on the Russian Hooker’s Roof” that was slated to open in the adjacent theater just doors down from the original Broadway location. “The show must and shall go on!” beamed an enthusiastic Irving “Artie” Swervewolf, clutching a fat stack of tickets in his hand and chomping on a pungent Macanudo, before bursting into impromptu song, to the delight of the legions of fans who’d congregated outside the Top Shop entrance in a clear sign of support for Swervewolf, Broadway’s longest running show. “We’re not going anywhere – and we’re still better that Cats!” barked out the veteran showman, as passerbys bought christmas presents for their relatives in Indiana and Madrid, to support Swervewolf.

WE HEAR the new theater, which features northward facing windows, a white-gloved Moroccan doorman and a fully functioning push-button elevator, opens its doors with a rousing rendition of Rug Move, Box Heave, For Here Comes Ye Swervewolves in about, oh, 30 or 40 minutes. Ammenities not included in the new theater – that will be sorely missed – include the human-propelled escalator, the Radioactive Cauliflower Olfactory Experience, The Mighty Egyptian Pharaoh’s Jewels, Now That’s What I Call Music: 1973, Blood-or-Crip: Unsigned Queens Rapper Board Game (Family Edition) and the always popular Russian Mafia Wars, Estonian Hook-Singin Hookers Limited Edition. Only in New York Kids, Only in New York.

Bob Tourettsetz: shitfucking music shit pussyfuck newsletter

"Fuck shit quincy jones Live Nation shitshit ticketmaster!"

Bob Lefsetz. Sorta sounds like tourettsetz. so what happens when the world’s foremost music insider guru dude develops an uncontrollable desire to curse at random moments? people stop being polite… and start getting real. Today Bob Tourettesetz tackles the rock and roll hall of mothershitfuckfame

Well, maybe it’s the nominating committee that’s handicapped, but I’m gonna give you crapdick take, followed by who I want in and who I believe will get in.

1. Guns ‘N Roses

Don’t overthink fuuuucckkkkk, don’t worry about fuuuucckkkkk being their first year of eligibility. If GNR doesn’t get in on the first ballot we should occupy Cleveland and demand they shut the Hall down. GNR made one of the greatest debuts of all time, one of the two best hard rock records ever (the other being “Back In Black”), and although the “Illusions” were overbaked, they still stood heads and heels above almost all of the dreck out there.

As for Axl being insane… The good thing is nobody can have a vendetta against him, we don’t hold grudges against the mentally ill.

I don’t think their induction, which will happen, will bring the original group back together to record and tour, but that’s gonna happen too, because they’re giving away tickets to Axl’s version of the act all over North America and fuuuucckkkkk guy goes through money like a kid goes through Pez and financial ruin will do what no amount of Azoff cajoling could make happen, which is bring the original band back together.

2. Laura Nyro

How David Geffen made his first million.

The fact that she ain’t in is criminal, just as bad as keeping Alice Cooper out for eons. Nyro had it all, she could write, sing and play. The Prince of her day, not only did she have a solo career, her songs were shitfucker for so many others. Let her in and bring her back. I still play her albums, doesn’t anybody else?

3. Donna Summer

Curious. Although she was the progenitor of disco, Donna also rocked, “Bad Girls” is one of the best rock albums of 1979. She gets in, deservedly so. Love to love her baby.

4. The Small Faces/The Faces

Two completely different groups. Rod Stewart’s already in, so we can forget the latter-day band. As for the original group… Steve Marriott’s disappearance from the public consciousness is not as tragic as that of Laura Nyro, but he had an incredible voice and “Itchykoo Park”…I had to buy that single, just to hear the phasing.

But Small Faces were bigger in the U.K. than over here. And it was so long ago. They won’t get in, and I’m not sure they deserve to.

5. Heart

Won’t get in, but should. Forget the eighties MTV shitfucker, go back to the seventies. They broke ground, they were the Billie Jean Kings of music. It was the Wilson sisters’ band. And Ann had pipes that were staggering, so pure in an era where it couldn’t be faked. Play the half-speed mastered vinyl version of “Dreamboat Annie”… ”Magic Man” will floor you (speaking of which, let’s not forget the fatherfucker, Mike Flicker!) I heard “Love Alive” on the radio the other night and I couldn’t turn it off, even though I was in crapdick garage. I could recite track after track…play “Never” and “Nothing At All”, never mind “Crazy On You”. Just because they were not involved in sex scandals and were not art rockers that doesn’t mean Heart were not groundbreakers.

6. Joan Jett and the Blackhearts

Give me a break. So she had a couple of hit singles, incredible, but she didn’t even write “I Love Rock ‘n’ Roll”. And despite all the press, the Runaways were not very good. Not everybody gets a trophy. Joan’s a journeyman (woman?). She deserves some respect, but not an award.

7. Freddie King

Very talented, but a second tier bluesman.

If you put him in, can Mark Farner sing the famous lines from “We’re An American Band”?

“Up all night, with Freddie King

I got to tell you, poker’s his thing”

And while we’re at it, can’t we have a special groupies division, with Sweet Connie and the Plaster Casters?

8. Red Hot Chili Peppers

They might get in, I applaud their longevity, but their most memorable era was the one including John Frusciante, who’s no longer in the band. Can we let them in for the few albums he was on? I wouldn’t, but the voters might.

9. Rufus with Chaka Khan

I once spent a night in the Troubadour bar with Chaka Khan and her then husband, Richard Holland. She was friendly and nice and I was a nobody and I never forgot it. Incredible pipes, thin body of work. The big hit was written by Stevie Wonder… Shouldn’t get in and won’t.

10. The Spinners

Crapdick old friend Fontaine Brown turned me on to “Rubberband Man”, he used to do a killer version of it live, with all the attendant swagger. They’ve had tons of shitfucker, let ‘em in, it’s fine with me.

11. Eric B. & Rakim

Is it the Rock & Roll Hall Of Fame or..?

I don’t want to pass judgment on Eric B. & Rakim, definitely a memorable act, but what exactly are the criteria for induction again?

12. War

A sentimental favorite. I was never a fan, but the backstory is fascinating, the mix of cultures, but I don’t think they deserve inclusion. But if you’re gonna let Joan Jett in, War comes first.

13. Donovan

Unjustly overlooked. Just because Dylan trashed him in “Don’t Look Back”, that doesn’t mean he wasn’t great. For “Sunshine Superman” and “Mellow Yellow” alone. Have you LISTENED to “Sunshine Superman”? Purely for the sound, Donovan deserves to get in. He might have been lightweight, but he wasn’t me-too, and he had tons of shitfucker and incredible vocalizations.

14. Beastie Boys

It’s all about “Paul’s Boutique”. Capitol blundered, but fuuuucckkkkk was the album, a trendsetter that is still relevant today. Incredible Dust Brothers production before they hooked up with Beck. They get in, but if they didn’t, I wouldn’t cry.

15. The Cure

If having hard core fans got you in, Rush would already be inducted. Robert Smith is incredibly talented, has had extreme longevity, but it’s not his time yet. They want stars, people the public will recognize.

Should get in according to me:

1. Guns ‘N Roses

2. Laura Nyro

3. Donna Summer

4. Donovan

5. Heart

Will get in:

1. Guns ‘N Roses

2. Donna Summer

3. Beastie Boys

4. Freddie King

5. Donovan

I’d put Laura Nyro on fuuuucckkkkk list and eliminate Donovan, but I don’t want to jinx it. And if it weren’t for the Beastie Boys, Eric B. & Rakim would get in. And I wouldn’t be surprised if the Chili Peppers took Donovan’s

GLASS BASEL: The FInal Art BASEL Post

The intersection of Glass and Ass Basel

just kidding, everything is an art basel post – even this. think about it. so here’s another one that just barely qualifies as a true blue art basel blog post: a photo gallery of people wearing glasses at art basel miami beach. let’s go:

Please Basel Don’t Hurt ‘Em: What New York Was Doing (While You Were Doing Miami)

While the rest of the Swervewolf operatives pawed the hell out of Art Basel, some of the pack had to tend to business that required a considerable party chaser. So we howlered at some New York friends who weren’t doing lines and girls named Molly down south and managed to scrounge up some respectable nightlife.

The evening began, like so many others, at a vogue ball in the basement of 80 Pitt Street, which was a lot like being in one’s school cafeteria. Optimistic mural of multiracial childen: in full effect. Basketball hoop above the folding lunch table: there. Room full of muscular men in dresses: of course. Despite the fact that a friend who came with came dressed wearing minx, the evening went off without a hitch, chock full of Christmas cheer. If you’ve never seen two elves battle it out on the gymnasium dance floor, well, you’ve simply not lived.

Are you sick of the obligatory weekend pilgrimages to Brooklyn yet? Well I’m not, because I’m in South America now. And besides, you know a ~~pre-Christmas~~ naked horny people performance art party’s going to be good when there’s a small round table with a namecard that says Lady Miss Kier. Or when you take a scenic tour of Brooklyn’s finest White Castles to get there in the first place. This final stop of the evening was even good despite the fact that walking in the door was like playing Brooklyn bingo: people wearing their costumes from Burning Man (check!). Cart of sexy vegans selling unsexy vegan food in a DIY food truck approach to staving off the drunk spins (check!). An endless sea of ecstasy and ketamine smiles (you know it!)

Basically, it was as though the House of Yes and The Box had a baby, which is pretty much was happening onstage, if I recall correctly. The best performance piece by far was Machine(?), which was also somehow the least naked. Paradoxical! Also, the debut of frat-boy drag. It’s real, it involves foam fingers, and it seemed to be just naughty enough to leave straight girls and dandyish men of undetermined sexual orientation squirming in their seats. Never before has the homoeroticism of beer ads been executed with such finesse. I’d go back just for that.

Jesuswolf was a Carpenter, But We Have Powersaws

This is not Jesus, nor a Carpenter, It's Yosef gettin fancy at Burninwolf

Jesus was a carpenter, and we have a woodshop in the Bronx where we make crap for the Burninwolf camp. Eery coincidence, no? Still don’t believe us – check our gallery of powertools. Oh and if you need to borrow them or buy them we’ll consider the best offer, but you have to pick them up in the Bronx or here at our online classifieds site WolfList.Org. No underage hookers or hooker perverts please!!!

How to Lose a One Legged German Wolfette in Miami

Gin & Teutonic Chronic Wolfette

Wrap your lobo noggin round this one: We’re in Miami departing the Westway NY club knockoff at the SHore Club, doing our usual erect-the-incorporated-statue™ of everyone’s favorite legal eagle Swervin Ervin bit we typically enact round the world, when we meet this chick from Germany, dressed like a one-legged Wolfette, compete with wolf paws on her grill, who proceeds to run us ragged all over town till finally we had to drop her like a bad wolf habit at the door to Paris Paris. Turns out, Paris Paris is a great place to lose a German German, even if you’re in Miami Miami. And the reason she wasn’t allowed into Paris Paris: the door dude, Simonez Wolf. Real Name. WE WOLF YOU NOT.

Now That’s What I Call Basel: The Sound of New Pussy!

The Sound of New Pussy by Yozmit

The sound of old pussy: velcro. The sound of New Pussy: Yozmit, a little Korean kimchi number we discovered while traipsing around a high dive overlooking the Shelborne Hotel pool in Miami around Art Basel. Turns out her box performs at the box, and it’s got a brand new sound…which happens to sound a lot like that little Basel Wife you married for 3 minutes in the bathroom of LeBaron. She’s currently not at her desk, because miss Thang thang is shooting her music video for the blazig new track The Sound of New Pussy in Joshua Tree (which reminds us that Bono is the sound of an old Irish pussy, aka a broken zipper). The concept of her video, according to our post performance breakfast meeting at the Shelborne pool, is that Yozmit is running around Joshua Tree, being chased by…Yozmit. In turn, Yozmit II is being chased by Yozmit I, creating a trim triumvirate chasing itself around California. Throughout, Yozmit 1, 2 and 3 are handing objects off to each other, creating a parallel universe akin to the model of reality proposed by String Theory. Ya follow? It ain’t quantum mechanics, holmes. It’s the sound of New Pussy.

NewPussywolf Poolside

Releasing the Beast with Den Haan

Glasgow’s Den Haan (it’s Dutch for “the cock”) are a duo the likes of which the world has not yet seen. All vodka and glitter and unabashed love for sleazy Italo disco, they make music for weekend warriors and seasoned professionals to dance and do drugs to. Record-hoarding Europeans have been in on the secret for a little while now, snagging everything that Optimo and Dissident put out. Now that the duo has released a full-length on their own label, The Courier of Death, even lowly Americans can get in on the action! With such poise and swagger, Den Haan deserve to be taking the world of drag queens, party hogs, and popper-huffing riffraff by storm on at least three continents. They’ve been working together ever since DJing a friend’s birthday party four years ago (aw!) and have also done remixes for Hot Chip, Little Boots, and Phenomenal Handclap Band. Gardi and Matt took some time away from prepping their new anything-goes club night to tell us about nightlife in Glasgow, their first big show, and what an ideal Den Haan party would look like.

How’d you get started DJing?

Matt: When I turned to electronic music and started gigging regularly as Crème de Menthe, I got asked to DJ. So I sort of fell into it, and have been gradually enjoying it more and more since. It’s disco and the original synthesized music from the 70s and 80s that has driven me to have real passion for DJing.

Gardi: Ever since I was 11 years old I’ve been buying records, so it was a natural progression. To be honest, I don’t think I started to get the hang of it until my late teens.

When did you figure out you wanted to make your own music?

M: I can think of significant moments, like the first time I heard “Pump Up the Volume” as a kid and thought, ‘I want to be involved with that sound.’ Also, the first time my music teacher said, ‘today class, we’re going to learn how to play the drums.’ Ever since then, I have been addicted to creating music.

If you’re working with actual equipment as opposed to Ableton plug-ins, why is that?

M: This seems to be the question when you talk about making authentic electronic music these days. It’s easy to understand, when you think that all of your favorites or the most influential tracks produced were from a time when you had to spend thousands of pounds/dollars buying equipment, learn how to use it, and spend hours crafting your sound. Now people are so lazy, they just load up something that they didn’t pay for and expect to make authentic music. It’s not going to happen!

G: But let’s not neglect the fact that it comes down to whether it’s a good tune or not!

What was the first really big party you played as Den Haan?

G: Our third gig was at the Optimo Hogmanay party with Noze at the Old Fruit Market in Glasgow, which holds about 1,500 people. To say we were thrown in at the deep end would be something of an understatement. We like to think it went quite well.

M: The stage looked like an H.R. Giger set from “Alien.” Absolutely fucking brilliant night.

How did you decide to start your own label, The Courier of Death? Will it be only for releasing your stuff or other people’s music, too?

M; The Courier of Death is also a notoriously bad film from 1984. Having loved the soundtrack and how bad the movie was, I decided to try and track down the film composer in 1996. That ended up being a four-year crusade and part-time hobby. Eventually, after failing to create any interest in established soundtrack labels, I decided to create my own label to release it. Right now, it is a platform for our music. Who knows about the future? Anything goes if it fits the right criteria.

What would an ideal Den Haan party look like?

Both: Giant inflatable dinosaurs, bubble machines, lasers by the dozen, smoke machines, fountains of booze, an excellent deli counter, an age group from 18 to 118, water slides, tree houses, tigers, boxing matches and no mobile/cell phones. Generally ridiculous and good fun.

What are things like in Glasgow?

G: Glasgow totally rocks. On the one hand, if people don’t like what you’re doing, then they are quick to tell you, which can be a tad harsh. But if they like it, you’ve got a friend for life. I have to say, it’s the bee’s knees for clubbing. My favorite places to play have to be The Sub Club and Stereo, and my favorite places to go out to are Wrong Island, RPZ, and of course, Optimo.

M: Glasgow club-goers are notorious for their hedonistic lifestyles, so a lot of the energy and outlook on life filters through or has had an influence on what we do.

Where would you like to play that you haven’t yet?

G: I want to play in Brazil!

M: Bogotá or Rio. In fact, a lot of South American cities. If possible, the moon.

What are you doing this weekend?

M: Drinking and shagging.

G: Making jam!

Get the “GODS FROM OUTER SPACE” at The Courier of Death website. For bookings, contact bookdenhaan@tcod.co.uk.

: They don’t work for love, they work for money, honey.

: Photo by Mark Osborne.

Duval Dispatch: Bar-Hoping and Hoppin the Dirrrrrty South

Did you know that while some Swervewolves are Real American Heroes, others have roots in the swampy south? Well it’s true, and there’s no better way of being reintroduced to good ol’ United States than getting off a plane from Buenos Aires and going bar-hopping with the friendliest and funniest of Duval County natives. While in all likelihood you will not be in Jacksonville, Florida anytime soon, if you ever are, now you know what’s good besides the complex multi-talented taxidermy of Clark’s Fish Camp (more on that later).

Unlike real cities, where public transportation manages to somewhat efficiently connect various neighborhoods, Jacksonville is plagued by sprawl. In fact, it’s the largest metropolitan area in the entire continental USA! So bar-hopping requires a complicated combination of automobiles and staggering on foot. If not already there, it’s best to head to Riverside, the (Palermo) Williamsburg of Jacksonville. Our first stop was a truly down-home bar on the main drag, where the culture shock felt so very nice. From the animal heads on the walls to the strange smell emanating from the busted up leather booths, it seemed like home again immediately–and that was before generous pours of top-shelf bourbon by a bartender whose penchant for blonde highlights was only outmatched by her adoration for Creedence anthems. The only downside to this delightful watering hole was the fact these drinks were only three American dollars–and they were doubles–meaning the possibility of our stay turning into a black hole of whiskey-related glories or defeats was high. And since bar-hopping requires movement, it was time to move on.

After leaving, we made our way to King Street, where a stretch of yuppie-friendly establishments are starting to draw crowds with relaxed yet occasionally swank new spaces. One, The Loft, was feeling a little fancy and referring to itself as Le Loft for the night. Fortunately for them, getting to hear “Show Me Love” out in public did feel a little like being in a upscale European dive (or back in mi querido Buenos Aires). The real draw of The Loft, besides the actual loft and hidden back bar, is the ample outdoor smoking space, where patrons can risk getting shanked by residents of the nearby Mad Max hobo thunderdome, set up in a deserted Winn Dixie grocery store. As long as one’s chance of being urinated on by the homeless while doing key bumps around the corner is still somewhere near 50 percent, Riverside is still delightfully scary and decidedly not gentrified.

The owners of The Loft have a couple of other spots on the same drag, including a wine bar with an all-you-can-drink special one night of the week. While my Floridian compatriots have hollow legs, I do not, and the chance to beg off of that one appeared in the form of an old friend who suggested that we go to Dos Gatos, the new hot spot where normal men go to get laid by well-dressed arty women, fail, and slink away. While the fake fireplace was a bit of an aesthetic bummer, the muddled drinks and tin roofs were a delight. Dos Gatos turned out to be a good idea for networking, with a duo of creepy Cubans who wanted to dish on the best afterparties and the latest spots in town for buying contraband.

After trading an authentic alligator head beer bottle opener for some sweaty Argentine pesos they said good-bye, and we were on the home stretch. We weaved our way through the downtown streets, dodging packs of crackheads who were busy yanking well-coiffed yet misinformed baristas off of their shiny fixed gear bicycles. Drinking in Jacksonville is not for the faint of heart, but for friends of Swervewolf, it comes highly recommended.

The GIRL TALK INVESTIGATION

So there’s a fervor in the air and we been sensing it for some time. It’s all a bunch of GIRL TALK, whispers about a seeming beat master extraodinaire. We arrived to Terminal 5 late because we decided to stop on a couch somewhere in the West Village and try DMT, or was it that our cab driver drove in a zig zag the entire way up there, crossing 10th avenue 5 times. An odd start to a concert to say the least, wait did I say concert? The security admonished us that we had missed Girl Talk’s first song, wait did they say song? We saw fractiles and wished we had a car-n-driver.

Wolves like Terminal 5 because you walk directly into the heart of the venue with the act roaring to your immediate right. The place was murky in the air, sweat and bouncing bodies hung suspended by the beats. We made our way around the back bar, up the side of the venue, then into the center of the crowd about 20 feet from GT. Yep the jams were pumping, the familiar memories were being stroked and played. Each person in the crowd had a connection to one of the 373 samples GTplayed – We heard some Hall & Oates, Men at Work, Biggie Smalls type shit that made us remember everything from riding in the car with mom, to MTV when it wasn’t schlock, and college blunt rolling classes all topped off with the Basement Jaxx.

Then again, there was something tin box about it, something lacking soul, something super of the moment trendy to be lost in a couple months and never really heard of again. The again, we had a shit kicking good time. Hey maybe modern culture is truly vapid, and one can choose to jump into it and just rock bodies to the beats. The whole entire 5000 person venue was dancing the whole time, kids on stage surrounding GT, young and old. It’s truly a party, bonkers, it’s less about staring at the stage and more about checking out the people, getting into dance offs and popping balloons. In the end we gave the show a paw in the air.

As for whether Girl Talk is a new zeitgeist, maybe so, but there are much better DJ’s who do much better than he does, for huge crowds, at crazy as venues, with madness style projections, costumes and DRUGS. OH did I mention the entire Girl Talk crowd was high on shit, not sure what it was, but it seemed like it was fun. You want proof of a DJ that cuckolds GT: check out DJ Dan’s set at Root Society Tower of Babel Burning Man 2010, then listen to a cloud of the set he threw down – smooth, crunchy, heavy beats with mashed potato ass mixes that delivered like Gentleman Speech the grandfather of Girl Talk.