Photos by: Julie Schuchard

Yes indie’d a sincere, sweaty performance out of your SF-based The Blacks. Also a CD release but yes, idie’d again (and proud of ourselves and clever as a left-handed skyhook from Pixar, that is,

[look Up] a metanym for “snipehunt”?) our The Blacks, America’s The Blacks and their buttons made of irony say with no emoticons “We [heart] The Blacks”:

Perhaps a discussion lay in the cards about such an eponymous flirtation with, or stab at, art–art as cultural effrontery–but keep in mind this here review comes from a guy who knows not whether any of the band The Blacks’s members really has Black in his name or if that matters at all, and who speaks in awful ragged pidgins so to try and impress French folks trying to seem coincidental . . ; what it’s supposed to call up and mean and everything for people in sitting bookstores on rugs, I mean from a cultural, say Post-Radicalistical perspective but let’s hope we can table that for now and resume later on the same rugged internets or over a joe. No wonder The Blacks are “takers” [see Instinct] in New York City and SF. They are tambourine tossers. Duck! The set was real, real good, the only way the name gets carried off unless of course there’s black in all their names but from the looks of it, well, who knows these days, yeah?

It makes me think of a “Got Milk?” t-shirt saying only redundantly, “Got Got?” in milkfont.

Show was tight.