I went to see the Pixies last night at New York’s worst venue — Hammerstein Ballroom. The music sounded great, of course; any night you get to hear “Broken Face” live is a very good night. But the club — yeesh. Memo to the management: 1) Pay for two more coat checkers by eliminating the entirely unnecessary and unwanted bathroom attendants. Your venue’s shitters are linoleum and porcelain, and your hand towels are made of cabbage-rough cardboard. This isn’t Tavern on the Green. It goes without saying that no one wants your fucking Aqua Velva. 2) Expedite the entrance procedure by eliminating bag searches at a Pixies show. No one is going to pull a Dimebag Darrell on Frank Black or Kim Deal for breaking up the Pixies — they would have done that long ago. And al Qaeda has more salacious targets than a run-down concert hall stuffed full of honky-white indie rock fans. 3) Make David Byrne dance. Don’t let that pale-ass motherfucker sit on his bony buttocks the whole show. And definitely don’t let him get up to go to the bathroom during “Monkey Gone to Heaven.” Suggestion: Use a taser. 4) Tell Frank Black Francis that he absolutely must play “Distance = Rate x Time” tonight, under penalty of AJS law. Or a taser. Who wouldn’t want to see someone taser that guy?


It is 22 below zero in my apartment right now.