Kirin J. Callinan, Purple Pilgrims
1026 Spring Garden St.
Philadelphia, PA, 19123
Doors 8:00 PM / Show 8:30 PM
This event is all ages
What a long strange trip it's been for Ariel Pink. Going from total outsider weirdo pop secret to the man pretty much single handedly responsible for inspiring a legion of like minded left-field pop peddlers like Kurt Vile, John Maus, Gary War, Blank Dogs, Wavves, Ducktails, Brian Glaze, Night Control, Neon Indian, and on and on.
Now finally, after all these years, AP's finally enjoying the respect and attention he deserves, and he's been rewarded with his first big time and widely distributed release, on 4AD, of all labels!! Anyone who has seen him and The Haunted Graffiti play lately know that while there is still a total weird and warbly vibe to their sound, they are a much more song based outfit, and way more straightforward than their way more fractured and fucked up earlier sound. Not to fear though, Before Today is not some glossy makeover of the Ariel Pink we all know and love, but it is for sure the most coherent, produced and focused album he's created. From glam-like '70s rockers, to yacht rock on acid, to super colorful fuzzy pop bliss, this is a record that explores so many different sonic territories.
It's also, by far, the 'breeziest' record he's made, the sounds often has us feeling like we're swirling in pink tinged clouds while a '70s soft-rock radio soundtrack bleeds into something a bit more subversive, and all the while, candy coated cereal comes raining down from the skies. AP's been at it for about a decade now, way beyond the lifespan of most 'bands', carving out his completely singular idiosyncratic voice, and it really makes sense, that more and more people are embracing his twisted sound, and showering him with the love and praise he's been getting from folks like us for years...
Kirin J. Callinan
You are Kirin J Callinan. You are from Australia. You don't put a period after your middle initial. You slick your hair back, mostly to keep it out of the way. You will be moving a lot, herky-jerky.
You are playing your first show in the United States at the Glasslands Gallery, in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, in a showcase sponsored by Terrible Records, your label. You spend 10 or 15 minutes before your set on your hands and knees, setting up a dozen or more pedals in a semicircle in front of your microphone. You wear two black gloves, like what cyclists might wear. Your tank top is loose, weathered, and tucked into your jeans. You look like you are setting up votive candles.
You set up a lone snare drum to the right of the pedals, a microphone attached to it. You sling a guitar over your shoulder. You take off your gloves. You wipe away some wetness from underneath your nose.
You speak, briefly, in two tones of voice, one groany, one light. You begin to sing, such as it is. You are crooning. You stop crooning. You sound like you are sneering. You look uncomfortable, awkward, maybe a little unstable. You slash at the guitar. You start to build beats by manipulating a few of the pedals. You are going at a few speeds at once. You probably read some Brecht.
You remove your shirt to reveal some scrawled tattoos. You change gears, go loud, go electronic. You maybe downloaded some Atari Teenage Riot. You stop. You return to the intermittent crooning. You are moist with sweat.
You bring out a small towel with your name screened onto it. You tell the crowd, which is full of young women in great glasses and young men with artisanal mustaches, that only four such towels exist in this country. You say they are for sale. You suggest using them as small bathroom towels. You say you would use it in your home gym. You are hilarious, after a fashion. You probably read some Hipster Runoff.
You return to the crooning, as it is. You pound that snare. You stop pounding the snare. You toss the drumstick into the air behind you.
You hold your guitar by its body high into the sky, letting feedback swallow the room. You keep it aloft as you fall to your knees. You stand back up. You take a small bow, like a child actor at the end of a junior high school play.
Heavily-buried psych warble from sister act Clementine and Valentine Nixon on Antony Milton's Pseudo Arcana label.
Thu, September 18
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