So, I live in Houston, Texas.
Did you know that Houston, Texas is the 4th Largest and 2nd Fattest City in the United States?
So, in Houston, Texas, the north side specifically, there is a neighborhood: Houston Heights, colloquially The Heights. The Washington Mutual in The Heights, it has a fancy front fascia that contrasts and complements the other nearby buildings’ front fascias in a way that only a panel of roundtable-sitters could have brainstormed in what they undoubtedly refer to as a “session”.Â The Heights has itself a white-washed diversity that appeals to 30-somethings looking to hang on to some shred of their modern and urban lifestyles while, you know, “safely” ploppin’ out some youngn’s.Â But The Heights, she has a darker underbelly.Â The kind of underbelly always and only present in places sporting numbered street names.
Towards the northern end of The Heights, which is itself towards the northern end of Houston, Texas, around 26th street, there is a factory.Â A factory that, as far as any reasonable persona can surmise, produces wire clothing hangers.Â Who the hell uses wire coat hangers?Â Everyone does,Â what the shit are you talking about.Â Talkin’ ‘Bout a fantasy word where every hanger is thick plastic suitable for both shirt and pant, obviously.Â Apparently this kind of confusion has caused this factory to develop sentience, voicing it’s entire range of opinions and emotions in the singular phrase, “BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP…..FIRE.”Â A phrase which, obviously, must be repeated for the entire three hours you are within earshot, because you, and the subsequent fire-respond teams, could not comprehend it’s obvious depth, obviously.
So, across from the Talkin’ Hanger Plant, in the northern Heights, on the north side of Houston, Texas, there is a place called Super Happy Funland.Â Super Happy Funland is the kind of place disaffected youth of (most of the time) all-ages can congregate upon after an early evening of pill-popping and oral sex, or whatever the hell fucking highschoolers do these days, fuck.Â The kind of place where the bill will, without question, always include an act someone, somewhere has at one time described, or will describe, as experimental noisecore.Â The kind of place that charges seven dollars to get in.Â The kind of place that has various child-instruments in the “lounge” for you to play with while you sit around waiting to listen to music you are not interested in.Â The kind of place that refers to a room housing:Â pee-soaked couch (1) and tables (2) – as a lounge.Â The kind of place where the disgusting underwearless proto-hippy proprietors also sleep and eat and live.Â The kind of place where, for Jesus Christ’s sake, I have performed.Â The kind of place that does not play host to Real Fucking Rock and Roll.
So, I mean, yea, I was pretty surprised.
My friend, Jessie, had called me up; told me they were going to a show.Â Some Japanese band they had seen before.Â So I went, went to this show they were going to.Â We sat around outside, talking to the drummer from this Japanese band.Â The set was going to be “more psychedelic”, this time, apparently.Â The other members came around, eventually, to complement psychedelic-drummer: long-hair bassist and polka-dot-pants geetarist.Â The guys got them high.Â Because apparently that is what you do when you are a twenty-something male trying to bond with another group of twenty-something males (drummer is 30, this was discovered later). Went inside, to watch the openers.Â Afro-headed Strokes guitarist looking/guy. Thick-legged long-hair girl-bassist in biker-shorts.Â Back outside.
Â Green Milk From the Planet Orange
is a three peice trio from Tokyo, Japan.Â The guitarist and bassist sit in chairs while they play, the drummer: a stool.Â Sometimes they stand.Â Sometimes they stand on the chairs.Â The seating arrangements: liquid.Â The desire and ability to fucking rock so god damned hard: solid. Rock solid.Â Three songs, in sum totalling over an hour.Â These three men ripped through 20-minute songs, filled to the brim with abstract solos, noise-freaks, metal-wails, and more importantly, perfectly-timed reversions to completely-accessible pop-influenced riffage.Â Halfway through the second opus, a mock-phone conversation (supported by sampled telephone rings – the single use of this particular piece of equipment, which was rather finicky during set-up) with, as he described to my friends and I later, Someone From the Planet Orange.Â Screaming.Â He was mad at this person.Â I was not mad at him.Â I came with low expectations and left in a state that can only be described as Progressively Rocked.
Merch purchased.Â We hung around and talked to them a bit, after the show.Â They were going to crash at the Super Trashy Houseland that night, playing some kind of weird house-party in Louisiana the next.Â They very obviously have the shittiest road manager ever, obviously.Â Tim offered to put them up at his place, they declined.Â Hilarious and awkward.Â Nice Fellows.