News

You soothsaying assassins:
It’s true, what you probably didn’t hear: We played three shows in New York last week under the nom de guerre “Beat Up Old Fellas”. Why the (sort of) secrecy? There was a little deliberate leaking, we admit. But everyone from some guy who wrote a comment on Brooklyn Vegan, to some other dude who has a blog, to this guy who’s a fictitious character in this one dude’s unpublished fan fiction, accused us of Intent To Manufacture Hype By Means Of Non-Secret “Secret” Show. And that was definitely part of it, and we are enjoying the lavish lifestyle that the recently gained fame has afforded us, but mainly, we didn’t want to play any of the stuff from With Love & Squalor because we had a bunch of new songs we wanted to try out before going into the studio to record them. So we didn’t want any big With Love & Squalor fans showing up and being disappointed by an unrecognizable set. Thankfully, it worked. The kids didn’t know what they were in for, didn’t know who the hell we were, and they loved what they heard. Here’s a picture from Friday night at Maxwell’s of a dude whose expression can serve as a handy mean of all audience expressions taken as a group:

Michael made a t-shirt for us to sell, and sell it we did, at a premium: twenty bucks just to take part in bidding! Over a hundred people paid to bid! Some chick ended up paying over a grand!

Nick Spinto weathers the Spinto-merch sales slump brought on by the presence of a single Beat Up Old Fellas tee.

Joe Spinto may be tired of running from the cops, but Jon Spinto will never tire of mocking Joe’s predicament (Joe stands accused of fucking rabbits). (Fucking them hard guys.*) * The rabbits die.

Master engineer Chris Coady, slated to man the mics on our upcoming album, breaks his one big rule by showing up and familiarizing himself with the music before deciding with absolute finality how it will sound on the record.

Karen Ruttner and Matt Rubano perfectly showcase the two possible responses Chris can get to his line, “Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere?”

Our new drum tech can barely talk and he shits his pants every day, but he knows drums like a horse-whisperer knows horses and whispering to them, and how to convince the horse of things using whispers poured into the horse-ear, as well as, presumably, how to saddle and otherwise care for a horse, all while keeping his voice low; whispering, if you will.

Chris accomplishes using just one foot-pedal what takes Keith nearly a dozen: having more than one sound come from his instrument. Greater than or equal to two sounds, let’s say.

Keith gets it done.

Chris gets it done.

Michael gets it done while following the game on his headset.

Above show photos taken by Justin Rice, co-director of the Textbook and Lousy Reputation videos, member of the magnificent Bishop Allen band, cat owner, fiancé, man. Guy. Fella.

Post performance, Shawn Lobb slaps it, snaps it, and wraps it, as we say in the live music business. Then he whaps it, baps it, and takes a crap on it, which is what separates him from even the best stage techs.

The photographer corners a tiger.

Four fans made it out to see W.A.S. after their laser vision penetrated the “Beat Up Old Fellas” disinformation campaign. Interestingly, the guy is from Stoke-on-Trent, but he was the only one of them who didn’t seem to know who the hell we were. Suspicious, we thought, given how much time we’ve spent in that town! His authenticity was redeemed when, after we quizzed him on The Underground and The Sugarmill, Stoke’s two finest venues, he shrugged and asked, “Yeah, but would you want to live there?” No sir! Death first! Death by fill-in-the-blank first!

Then there were these guys, who so aggressively pimped their buddies’ band New York Howl (you see the t-shirt, but can you see the business card slipped into a back pocket? the persistent conversational refrain?) that it would surely damage our karma not to include a link here.

Jay Belin, booker for the Mercury Lounge, and Mike Mori, guy who books W.A.S. at the Mercury Lounge.

Three-sixths of The Spinto Band play a jazzed-up cover of Happy Birthday to a crowd only too happy to finally hear something they vaguely recognize.

Kendell walks away with the world’s only Beat Up Old Fellas t-shirt, plus a $1200 hole in her pocket.

An irrepressible lady’s man and director of mainstays in the W.A.S. videography like The Great Escape (version 1) and the Gilbert & George studies, Mathieu Shrontz knows where the major girl-crossings are in most clubs.

Michael seals the deal. Four hundred plastic combs to be delivered to the pier at midnight exactly. In exchange, the congressman dies, but in a way that makes it look like a gun and knife accident.

Keith kisses a vicious little anthill of grape Pixie Stick sugar off of Joe Spinto’s baseball-shaped bicep.

Keith confronts Brian Teeth about having a mustache while playing in a band, calling it a “shameless, transparent stab at distractive marketing that can’t begin to stand in for good music.” Brian: not catching much of it; too drunk on free rounds for guy with mustache.

Guy has got his dick out, is why everybody else is so upset. (Good eye! That is indeed Mark from The King Left with his dick out!)