Sunday, 15 December 2002 | Washboard

At about 8:30 Saturday night, my head was resting on a red velour pillow somewhere toward the bottom of a sloping set of risers, in an old warehouse in Brooklyn, just by the Manhattan Bridge. The risers were sloped toward a stage and a giant window, through which you could see a sample of the Brooklyn skyline, the yellow rectangles of burning lights in nearby buildings. On the stage were two men, one molesting a shiny, metal guitar, and the other producing impossible noises on a harmonica. He wore a belt full of them, wrapped around him like weapons that he could draw in an emergency.

On his right hip, he wore a white metal coffee cup that was attached by a retractable leash. He'd pull it up to the harmonica he was playing, catching the notes in the cup and releasing them to the microphone, and then he'd let the cup drop and snap back into place. He sang, sometimes quietly into a megaphone that was pointed at a microphone, making his voice sound distant and produced. He made sounds by hitting his tensed mouth with his hand, Native American style, but voiceless. He played a washboard that was rigged with a small cymbal and a horn, and a rope that allowed him to hang it around his neck. He played the kazoo. He waved his arms around dramatically to illustrate the sounds he was producing, making the audience laugh.

It was amazing to watch; even better that I had my head on a pillow, and that I had a collection of things at my hip, including brie and crackers and a bottle of beer. I wish that you could've been in that small space to watch it with me, because describing feels flat and inanimate.

Later, a college-y party and a punk party, and a long wait in an empty subway tunnel.