Thursday, October 20, 2016

Bitch Falcon & Le Butcherettes Live at The Workman's Club

2016 has been a great year for gigs: Spines, Maija Sofia, Fierce Mild, Mitski (!), Grace Jones (!!!) and hopefully next month I'll manage to witness my beloved Peaches doing what she does best. Yesterday I finally had the chance to see Bitch Falcon live, as they were opening for Le Butcherettes. They are unpretensiously fierce, incredibly talented, wildly explosive and hands down love at first listen. Deadliest opening act ever, for sure. Lizzie Fitzpatrick is agressively enthusiastic, dragging the audience into her own noise den, her ferocious voice reminding me of riot grrl references and a neverending energy that could last for hours. I was delighted to experience all that noisy climax, a riot of raw grungy riffs, embellished by kick-ass drums and a dream bassline. Coolest band in Dublin? Most likely.

Teri Gender Bender is a fuckin' hurricane and so was this gig. A theatrical experience, a rush of adrenaline inviting us to step into Teri's red glittery visceral universe and pouring her soul into this violent exorcism of demons. What a powerful performance! I knew I was in for a treat the moment I bought that ticket. This band must seen live at least once in a lifetime, I shit you not. They are passionate, insanely skilled, combining elements of garage-punk, rock n' roll and their own special ingredients - feminism-fueled lyrics, multi-instrumentalist marvels, roaring guitars invading your eardrums. I couldn't take my eyes off Teri: a voice like an inextinguishable wildfire (yet beautifully melodic), standing on top of her keyboards singing her heart out and pulling her own hair. Also, fair play to you, relentless blue-haired drummer! Unreal. Inspiring. Spectacular. Legendary. Le Butcherettes are THE band.

Monday, October 17, 2016

Disappointing Dinner at Front Door

I curse the moment I convinced Gerda to have dinner with me in this place - to be honest I wouldn't have entered it if we weren't both so hungry; every other place was packed and queuing for half an hour didn't sound good. 

Where do I start? The place itself is a gastropub-looking bistro with a cocktail bar and an inviting, reasonably priced (considering the central location) menu. Nice decor, glass roof, neat contemporary restaurant interiors dimly lit by candles. All good until we ordered the food. The waitress didn't know the actual meaning of the words coeliac and gluten-free so she was a bit confused when Gerda enquired about GF options. There was this fella at the bar who, for some reason, convinced himself we didn't speak English and tried to communicate via pseudo-sign language - I know I'm a bit deaf but come on. 

I ordered... you guessed it, steak. Sirloin steak with veggies and a glass of red wine for 20 euros (for that price, my expectations didn't fly too high), some weekend promotion going on. Gerda ordered roast chicken wrapped in bacon paired with cheddar mash, it actually looked better than my steak when it finally made it to our table. She wasn't too impressed, apparently the cheese was too gluey and the chicken a bland fiasco.  Now, the steak. Possibly one of the worst I've ever been served. Lukewarm, watery, far from rare and worse, NOT SEASONED. Unforgivable. The only silver lining in this cloud of unsatisfying meat was the subtle, distinctive taste offered by the charcoal grill. If there's something I'm actually great at is cooking the perfect steak and ruining a good cut of meat is a sin. A tragedy, really.

Washed-down-with-Malbec veggies were ok but the sides didn't make up for the catastrophic meal I've had. Can't really complain about the presentation but I wondered why the hell my pepper sauce was placed in a gigantic ramekin. Oh, and I didn't even bother finishing my chips because they were undercooked... I have one friendly advice to the chef: when in doubt, double fry it. I should also reveal that poor Gerda had a bad reaction after our unfortunate dinner. Cross contamination's a bitch. Moral of the story: you get what you pay for.

Friday, September 2, 2016

Time Flies and Summer Dies

Summer lives fast and dies young. Back in Portugal, Summer used to last forever - the constant heat, the dry breeze, the neverending sunlight. Can't say I miss it. I'm an Autumn person as much as I'm a dog person. I'm ready for this Summer to end, reading beat poetry and Flaubert sheltered in the local pub snug, with an imaginary soundtrack (synthwave, The Cure, Sad Lovers and Giants) constantly stuck in my head. I find myself smelling the sweet perfume of old book pages, maybe those campfire marshmallows-scented candles are not enough for my greedy nostrils... White tea, dragonfruit and way too many carbs embellish my diet. Most of the time I feel like a bear cub, or a tiny Jack Russell. An ottersloth! Now, bedtime.
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