About a month ago I interviewed Carrie Brownstein on the telephone and she was a 100 percent crotch. I should have known that this was going to be the case, because when you mention her name to almost anyone, it seems like their eyes light up and they get a burst of energy, as though they have been waiting for years to get the chance to say that yes, they have spoken to her as well, and she is in fact a crusty, crabby, crotch face. The major difference between those people and myself, however, is that I don’t care. I like, NAY, I value and respect people who are crotches, because it’s honest and true. The majority of people I’m friends with are crotches, and I myself am a member of the crotch club. Sure sure, I’ll smile a crooked smile at you and steal your heart like the fucking Dillion Panthers, but in my mind I am wishing and praying that I could go through life never having to talk to anyone, ever, most of all you (chances are that this applies to whoever “you” are, unless you’re funny and hot, (like Carrie Brownstein) or are offering me a snack or a tasty beverage).
Continue: Kelly’s Krush Kroner - Carrie Brownstein
HP@SXSW: Wild Flag's Wild Night at the Parish
Wild Flag conjured a packed house of tired concertgoers back to life and into a rock and roll frenzy at the Parish Friday night, despite being a little worn down themselves.
“What day is it? East Sixth Street is a mind eraser,” guitarist and vocalist Carrie Brownstein quipped before starting in with her monster riffs, played with playful punk rock swagger. Appropriating moves used by iconic dude-rockers like Jimmy Page and Iggy Pop, Brownstein kicked, thrusted, and headbanged her way through a set of sprawling yet tight anthems, reveling in this bombastic male tradition while subtly parodying it. At several points in the set, Brownstein and co-guitarist and vocalist Mary Timony took simultaneous solos, which struck me as the ultimate female re-working of the form. Rather than wanking her axe in such a manner that was pleasing only to her, each woman fed off the other, producing an intoxicating shared energy. As Janet Weiss pounded her drums like an uncommonly skilled cavewoman, Brownstein and Timony crossed swords, pushed each other over, writhed on the ground, made incredible rock face, and crackled.In an interview I did with the group earlier that day, we’d talked about how younger bands seem afraid to really let go, while Wild Flag does everything in their power to live up to their name. That these four women are able to put on great performances without taking themselves too seriously is borne of years of confidence-building experience. Not surprising, considering Brownstein created an entire TV show devoted to mocking that same indie culture in which she participates. Wild Flag is not for the cross-armed, text messaging concert-goer.
“I’m a racehorse, so put your money on me,” Brownstein belted repeatedly during the slow-building climax to one of the set’s best songs. She didn’t have to tell us twice.—Jamie Peck
—Illustration by Debbie AllenFavorite set of the festival. No contest. These women are my heroes.
