December 10, 2002 — Holy figgy pudding, Batman! It's the last NY Rock Confidential of 2002. Here's hoping Santa brings us more great bands, bigger implants, and a pony.

Lost City Angels at Irving Plaza, October 27, 2002

The Lost City Angels bio said that the band "will crush your skull." I'm so used to a band promising to "kick your ass" that I was intrigued when my skull suddenly usurped my ass for beating privileges. The band also happened to be opening for Andrew WK and I love him. So off I went to get my skull crushed and being such a fearless bitch, I didn't even wear a helmet. I'm so hard, it's scary.

Just like me and helmets, members of the Boston-based LCA don't look like they belong together, either. There's a motorcycle-gang-meets-sk8r-boi thing going on. Greasy, angsty singer Ron Ragona was dressed in tight denim with a Misfits T-shirt while guitarist Nick Bacon is a spitting image of Tony Hawk 10 years ago. Gnarly, dude. When the band broke into its first song, their black leather-style rock 'n' roll grabbed the crowd by its skull and started to crush it. A mosh pit ensued, and there was a lot of fist-pumping and chanting of "Hey! Hey!" Kids sporting black-framed Revenge of the Nerds glasses got in touch with their inner Jerry Only. Lost City Angels had a steady grip on melody, but their songs were pretty friggin hardcore. This live set was best suited for cranking up in a sexy hot rod with a gleaming, well-endowed chrome muffler.

McLusky at Luxx, November 14, 2002

You know you've made it when your name becomes an adjective. Take, for instance, Beyonce Knowles of Destiny's Child. "Beyonce" has since become a synonym for "fabulous." I came up with a new adjective for the erudite among us: McLusky. It's a synonym for "bloody-screaming-whopper-fuck." I don't really know what it means, either, but it sounds so cool, just like the band.

McLusky is a trio from the UK that yanks at the flesh of guitar grinders and manic screechers like Big Black and the Jesus Lizard. Their obnoxious music gets up in your face with its stank breath and jabs at your bones with wrought-iron intensity. Let me put it this way, McLusky makes the Vines look like turds.

Singer-guitarist Andy Falkous looks like a soccer hooligan; bassist-singer Jon Chapple is a tall and lanky dude whose eyes look like Thom Yorke's; drummer Mat Harding doesn't look like much, but could split the earth's crust with his pummeling. The band nearly crumbled when they broke into song. You know how you get kind of loony when you haven't slept in a day or so? Multiply that by 100 and you have the kind of I'm-down-to-my-last-nerve instability that McLusky thrives on. Songs like "Lightsaber Cocksucking Blues," "Alan Is a Cowboy Killer," "The World Loves Us and Is Our Bitch," and "To Hell With Good Intentions" were so raw and brutal, they could've scared flies off shit.

"This is a soft song ... I fucking hate it," said Falkous. Chapple asked for a drink and some fan handed him a half-empty glass of whiskey. "I'll keep that if you don't mind," said Chapple after taking a swallow. The fan didn't mind. "Excellent." Two women in the crowd grew rowdy and started shoving each other around. Soon enough, beer was thrown and the audience was in love with McLusky. At the end of the set, Chapple sprawled his body across the drum kit and the stage was left in shambles. The crowd looked like they just saw the Pope breakdance. They got totally McLusky-ed.

Black Keys and the World/Inferno Friendship Society at the Mercury Lounge, November 22, 2002

Two white boys from Ohio soaked the Mercury Lounge with humid blues-rock, turning a regular Friday night into an imaginary field trip to the homeland of jambalaya and Britney Spears (that'd be Louisiana). The Black Keys are singer/guitar-freak Dan Auerbach and drummer Patrick Carney. They slapped down a concoction of blues that was thicker than grandmaw's Mississippi mud pie.

With his longish-albeit-prosaic haircut and wooly beard, Auerbach looks like a member of Phish (pick a member, any member). Meanwhile, Carney is so tall and thin, you'd figure Tim Burton conjured him up. But give this Mutt and Jeff duo their instruments, and get ready for rockin' blues that come off tattered, heartbroken, and completely frill-free. People were screaming approval, chords echoed and lingered, and more than once, hints of early Cream resonated out of the amps.

Rumor has it that rapper Nelly wrote his hit song "Hot In Herre" after seeing Brooklyn's World/Inferno Friendship Society perform. The Inferno made Nelly want to take off all his clothes, with a little bit of uh-uh. (We wish this were true. We really, really do.)

New York City's veritable cult band World/Inferno unleashed its punk-ska-gypsy cabaret to a crowd of adoring, loyal fans. At least 30 members have come and gone from the World/Inferno since its birth in the late '90s, but tonight, there were nine men and women up on the small Mercury Lounge stage including three saxophonists, accordion player, bad-ass percussionist, drummer, bassist, guitarist, and maestro Jack Terricloth. The ringleader of this tribe of carnival derelicts, Terricloth has slicked back hair, a waxy complexion, and wore a flashy suit. Part used-car salesman, part rockabilly auctioneer, he had his minions in the palm of his greased hand. The crowd took their cues from him, and when World/Inferno played "Zen and the Art of Breaking Everything in this Room," the crowd flung themselves around the room, knocking into tables and bystanders. As he swilled a Corona and worked his shticky shtick, Terricloth paid homage to obscure, dead punk rockers from New Jersey and the activist-scholar-artist-athlete Paul Robeson.

The band played with gusto, Terricloth pontificated from the stage, and the smiling audience was reflected in his sweaty, shiny countenance. Burn, baby, burn.

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