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Who knows what vitriol might've lurked behind front man Glenn Mercer's black shades, but he seemed to enjoy blazing through his band's back catalogue.
"Show us your penis!" cried one randy (male) fan.
“Hi, we're famous,” announced one of the performers. “This is going to be awesome.”
“I’m super punchy!” she exclaimed early on. “Who knows what I’ll say?”
They turned a sold-out Music Hall of Williamsburg into a pocket-size arena.
Walking down North 6th Street last night at 1:30 a.m. was like parting a Red Sea of bearded, bespectacled guys in plaid shirts.
Watching them was a little like watching a kitten fight: lots of fluff, but claws enough to draw blood.
He was apparently unfazed by constant streams of pot smoke, a minor fight by the stage, and a guy in the balcony who performed interpretive dances.
Malkmus has always approached music like a fast-learning alien virtuoso.
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