Criptic Critic Conscience and Known for it

Friday, January 15, 2010


It was packed, Chelsea already peppered with openings was gently introduced last night by White fungus Gang, to an unpretentious crew whose delivered experience you love to hate while reviewing every second of the moments fame; to go back and suck all the marow from its bones.

High Lights, David Watson, sonic brilliance is too easy, this is a mountain of torrents, a flooded valley of bite sized bits melt in your mind moments of precious delerium, one man Bag pipe, another guy doing something I couldn't see... any way Single tonal blasts that ripple and unfold through the gallery like Fucking Vikings taking the shore.

Tao Wells, mad last bash of thing, came in and Insulted us all with a 'Hey fuck up!" litterally yelling at people to either shut up or "get the hell out of the gallery". We were then left with this J.c Penny guy sitting on the floor of a divided by gender room, waiting tenaciously pensive with pen and paper, to finally break the tension with a shirtless dance gesture.

Six acts in one night is a tiring bore, but not last night, the acts came and tumbled by like finely tuned cards, fluffy donimos leaving the final act, the curtain crusher. Cambell Kneal, Our Love Will Destroy the World, just that. Just that come on give us a juicy metaphor, take a cathedral set it on fired, mike up the pipes of the 2 thousand old organ, hear the bursts in equisite detail while sitting in the pews. yeah it was loud, violent. all over your ear drums played as they say they are, Brain Drums. Thank You White Fungus. I am 20 pounds lighter or heavier.