Tuesday, June 17, 2003

Out In Siberia 06.17.03

Note that Siberia has the graffiti’d and painted black look that draws in all the aging rock and roll women and men from around the city. The end of the earth let’s party and debauch it away warehouse fantasyland every rock bar/ club wishes to become. But the new Siberia does it well! And across from Port Authority—how filthy can it get? You know where you are? You’re in the jungle baby, you’re gonna rock.

Hot damn. I am coming back here.

I went to see my long-lost friend KRP—by long lost I mean she last saw me when I had hair which must have been at least a year and a quarter ago. She’s got a pretty good voice, weaving up to that folky high register Joni Mitchell kept hitting.

KRP weaved good song-stories in the basement of the hidden bar, working herself into a semi-comfortable position on a sliding seat; worked her guitar adequately, especially considering that she’s still learning how to play; and created a vibe that’s half rainy-Saturday NPR and your cute friend’s slightly bitter quips + asides.

And a guy adds to the ambiance by spilling most of his beer on the concrete floor, sticking his foot in lovingly, and spreading the mess around like a failed mop.

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