Hinds, Cold Fronts, Navy Gangs
Friday October 30, 7 pm at Baby’s All Right: $20
I’m just as averse to the term “girl band” as the next girl, but for some reason I can’t resist calling Hinds, an indie rock outfit rolling into town this week from Madrid, a babe band. Before anyone gets all riled up and loses their breakfast sandwich over the label, remember that “babe” is a gender-neutral term and, secondly, a person can qualify as a babe for a number of reasons.
I’m not gonna lie, at first the bubbly girls of Hinds seemed like variations on a theme–every hot Spanish girlfriend I’ve ever been introduced to and not-so-secretly loathed. (Feel free to swap out “Spanish” for “literally any nationality with a sufficiently “foreign” accent.) I mean, is it even possible to maintain hair that long and lustrous past the age of 11? The fact that NME described the foursome as “in a perpetual state of giddiness” only reaffirmed my suspicions.
See for yourself in “Davey Crockett” (below), the band’s 2015 music video in which the Hinds girls are going just cuhhh-razy. After some dude throws a Hinds record on the turntable, the girls follow suit and start dancing on a dining room table, and scream-singing into make-believe microphones (hair dryers, of course). Yeah, it’s cutesy, that’s for sure. But I nearly scream-laughed when the lead singer Carlotta finds a canister of whip cream in the fridge and instead of using the dang thing like a whip-it as God intended, she actually eats the whip cream. Like, who are you– Captain of the Girl Scout Junior Cadettes in heaven?
Though it grates me to say it, their uproarious, earnestly joyous lip-synching is infuriatingly adorable. But more importantly, Hinds makes some pretty fun pop music with a garage rock edge to it, and just a dash of psych. Typical Burger Records fare it might be, but it’s catchy and uplifting and maybe that’s exactly what all of us frown faces need right now.
Dave Skull, Dean Cercone, Johnny Censual, Cameron Stuart, Honey Well
Sunday November 6, 8:30 pm at The Glove: $7
This show’s a little bit far off into the distant sunset, but plan ahead and you’ll be prepared just as tip-top Girl Scouts should be. Besides, who wants anything to do with the figuring-out part of show-going on a Sunday? No one. So lock your pals in now for a show that’s sure to be as chilled out as you are.
First up is Dave Skull, apparently flying solo from his regular role as the lead guitar twanger and singer of The Seashellz, a band that dwells in a drearier, limp-bodied realm of psych.
If this sound had a school, Dean Cercone would be its rebellious but beloved student. In addition to making scratchy, drum machine-backed experimental pop that sounds like tape-decay incarnate, Cercone is a visual artist too. He had a solo exhibition in Bushwick pretty recently and exhibited his paint-splattered sheets that may look abstract at first, but slowly betray figurative forms. I’m sure there’s a parallel that can be drawn between Cercone’s eye stuff and his things made for ears, but that just wouldn’t be very Sunday of me to go into, now would it?
Pujol, RIPS, Dead Sexy Sheila, White Rope
Thursday October 27, 8 pm at Alphaville: $10
“Stinky Toy” is a pretty polarizing track– on the one hand, Daniel Pujol (who performs simply as Pujol) doesn’t sing or scream his lyrics, instead he speaks them, which can already throw certain kinds of inflexible types of people off balance, and fling them head-first into a spinning, topsy-turvy fuss fit.
Come to think of it, that’s probably part of the fun. Even for all you poetry/spoken word people out there, you’ll find there’s something much less harmonious about Pujol’s diction. Instead, he embodies a familiar drone that trudges onward like a noir voiceover, or spookier yet– like that guiding monologue inside each of our heads.
Ovlov, Bad History Month, J&L Defer, Tall Friend
Friday October 28, 8 pm at the Silent Barn: $10
If you spend at least a couple of hours each day praying for a speedy and merciful death, here’s the show for you.
Doctor’s orders that you get yer butt in the door at the Silent Barn and unfurl your ears all the way out, so you can scoop up what Ovlov will be hurling your way– mainly, shoegaze with some Dinosaur Jr. running through those vocal chords.
If your date to the show is the sensitive type, the kinda person who won’t leave the house unless he’s wearing his PJs as a bottom layer, Bad History Month will be right up their alley, as a band graced with a lilt not unlike Mr. Isaac Brock’s own country-boy cadence. Though copy cats BHM are not– instead, they’ve mastered a melancholy vibe that can be downbeat and foot-draggy without putting anyone to sleep. And you can’t go wrong with some of their recommendations: “Let’s party every day.”