An early rise was in order as we had to be in Baltimore for a 4pm set. Pennsylvania proved to be hilly and green while Michael Jackson proved to be dead and inescapable. It seems that his epitaph is the new Bitter Tears press release:
Whether [they are] wowing fans as a singing/dancing machine, turning heads with outlandish wardrobes, or alternately amusing or horrifying everyone with [their] kooky behavior, [The Bitter Tears can] never, [will] never be ignored.
Located just blocks from City Hall, the Sidebar is a dank bike messenger bar frequented by district attorneys and other whiter collars. One of the messengers ragged on the fixed gear hipster art kids, who ride sloppy and don’t invite messengers to their race parties. Then he got a call and had to run.
The bartender at The Sidebar informed us that we were not playing there. That some band called The Faggots was playing. “Are you guys the faggots?”
The good news is that we were playing somewhere else and it would be during the nighttime when people go out to see bands and music. The Hexagon wasn’t open yet so we ate jerk chicken that was spicy, boney and delicious.
Baltimore architecture has a creepy Scottish quality, with rickety fire escapes that reach down to the ground, inviting you to explore. I climbed to the top of a vacant castle but found it to be less relaxing than I had hoped.
The Hexagon is a DIY spot with a tall deep stage and good sound system. We opened the evening with “Slay,” and the good people of Baltimore seemed genuinely amused by our spectacle. Alan goaded me into telling a stand up comedy joke because I do improv. It went over very well and I received a standing ovation. In fact our whole set was a standing ovation. Thank you, Baltimore.
Solar Bears followed with Comas-style havoc that left my ears ringing and my mouth smiling.
Eagle and Talon are a mostly female LA trio. Recently they played on 90210. They have been touring without any amps or drums, borrowing equipment from hopeful men. The set was a come-hither party of Jabberjaw era tease rock. It was a very sexy set, if you’re into complaining during sex.
Werewolves closed the night with rad, rad hardcore. David Johansen as a PCP archer.
A case of Natty Boh’s in my belly, I climbed the roof and watched the action in Charles Village. At Hess the 40 oz. homeless set slurred “We Are The World.”
Werewolves’ great drummer Jake put us up at his 3-story row house, where other bands kept coming in at 3am. A bonfire occurred in the back porch, and I half-expected The Wire’s Lieutenant Daniels to barge in, furious at his rag tag house-sitters.
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