Sunday, March 16, 2003
the best little band EVER
80's Matchbox B-Line Disaster:
Guy Knight strolls into my life. Wham, like a punch to the face, knocking me to the floor with his a fucked-up blank stare, quivering cupid lips and vocals so loud they shock life into your dead grandmother raising her from beyond the grave. Eighties Matchbox can be categorized as part death rock, part psycho-billy (or so they say). They aren't your typical good music with dead content band, they have talent overall and they're live show is not to be missed. Knight's act is first interpreted as a heroin daze but the littleboylost puppy dog eyes never seem to cease - seesawing between annoying and awesome. The music is toe tappingly catchy--making Knight's scream echo out of nowhere but his whisper almost in audible. His stroll through the audience has it's impact as he crouches on the ground as he wails - the audience just looks on. Every female in the front row understands what I'm feeling as they reach out to graze his shoe with their tips of their cheap chipped polish as Knight clambers back on the stage. He performs his own Spears worthy dance routine - deep stare, drool, all while lifting his shirt half-way up his chest then quickly covering up and looking at us like we're the freaks. All I know is when the set was over, I wish I knew their name, owned all their albums and was fucking the death rock's answer to Iggy Pop.
¶ 10:46 PM
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80's Matchbox B-Line Disaster:
Guy Knight strolls into my life. Wham, like a punch to the face, knocking me to the floor with his a fucked-up blank stare, quivering cupid lips and vocals so loud they shock life into your dead grandmother raising her from beyond the grave. Eighties Matchbox can be categorized as part death rock, part psycho-billy (or so they say). They aren't your typical good music with dead content band, they have talent overall and they're live show is not to be missed. Knight's act is first interpreted as a heroin daze but the littleboylost puppy dog eyes never seem to cease - seesawing between annoying and awesome. The music is toe tappingly catchy--making Knight's scream echo out of nowhere but his whisper almost in audible. His stroll through the audience has it's impact as he crouches on the ground as he wails - the audience just looks on. Every female in the front row understands what I'm feeling as they reach out to graze his shoe with their tips of their cheap chipped polish as Knight clambers back on the stage. He performs his own Spears worthy dance routine - deep stare, drool, all while lifting his shirt half-way up his chest then quickly covering up and looking at us like we're the freaks. All I know is when the set was over, I wish I knew their name, owned all their albums and was fucking the death rock's answer to Iggy Pop.
¶ 10:46 PM
|
