Atlantic Kontik

I was really not expecting last night's outcome. The problem here, of course, is that I don't read Pitchfork, so when some listing comes up for a moderately vivacious off-kilter garage rock band at an obscure Downtown Brooklyn venue, I assume that one could waltz up to the door the night of the show and demand some hot entry.

Not so The Ponys. It transpires that they had played the Bowery Ballroom the night before with Art Brut, but this showing hhad not drained the hipster swamp at all. Not one bit.

Transfering the action to the Magnetic Field on the corner of Henry and Atlantic had not calmed the clamour one bit. Thus the venue that normally hosts the Brought Low, three men, and one dog suddenly was telling people with asymetrical haircuts to bugger off.

But the bottom of Atlantic is now festooneed with fall-backs, so we chowed on the flaky cod at the Chippie nearby, had a pint at Floyd (where's your P. Slope outpost, you big bitchy bitch?), and then toodled off home. So no beautifully recorded impressions for you.

Still, you probably should go listen to the mp3s anyway. I stand by the language I used to pitch them to the coworkers I gulled into trying to get into the sold-out gig: "The band sing like w*nkers but play rather well. " You're welcome. I'd like you to cut out the use of the gratuitous fauxbox on the home page, mind.