Fucked Up, Iceage, JEFF The Brotherhood @ 285 Kent, Williamsburg 6/25/11
This show was incredibly sweaty. It was also really great, but the lead line must capture the scene, and the scene was full-coated body wetness in 285 Kent, the recently renovated and nicely redecorated space next door to Glasslands on Kent Ave. For all the tweaks to the room, which thanks to Todd P has already established itself as one of the best booked in a crowded Southside Of Williamsburg venue market, there is no cooling system (but for a lonely, outmatched wall unit AC) and the dank feeling of a room without ventilation. The resulting body-crushed sweatpit affected some (like Fucked Up’s Pink Eyes, who ran out front for a breather during his set and puked four of five times in front of the venue after it) a bit more than others. (In fairness: All dripped profusely). The feeling suited the summer sellout crowd, though, all filed in for a triple-stacked aggro bill that was listed as JEFF The Brotherhood with Danish hype punkers Iceage and a headlining set by “Pu Dekcuf,” words which were officially straightened out soon after the Canadian band behind AOTY contender David Comes To Life opened for Dinosaur Jr the night before at Terminal 5.
There were no online ticket sales, and all advance ticket seekers were directed to the sole ticket outpost, Record Grouch, a small and difficult to locate vinyl store in the basement of a vintage clothing shop on a lonely corner of Metropolitan Ave. in Williamsburg. (For the record, they have great albums — I snagged a Wipers Youth Of America and some Richard Hell and Elvis Costello stuffs for a decent fare. The guy working there seems to have a good heart but, true to billing, is indeed a grouch.) Check ‘em out, though, the wares are worth it.) Walkups on Friday night were quickly exhausted, the room essentially full for the night’s opening act. Or at least by the end of the opening band’s 25 minute set: Iceage were, again, terrifyingly punctual (early, even), and even more kinetic and evidently prodigal with their tightly coiled, heavy and melodic punk than at Public Assembly. (More blood on their singer this time, too, if we’re looking to distinguish the performances.) JEFF The Brotherhood’s bombastically riffed, Sabbath-infused punk rock remains best experienced live, and while Fucked Up were excellent and excellently received (“I love playing New York more than I love playing Toronto, except my wife and kid are in Toronto, and my kid is really cute” was how Damian responded to the love), the swelter was suffocating, and after a great many bottles of water were poured on the band (by request), and a great many moshers had done their business, Fucked Up called it a night a bit earlier than they would have in a space iwth central air conditioning. As for money’s worth, it was already plenty.