Rain and rain and rain
+ sweaty me + facepaint = eye bath in the blazes. Later, I will dump 4 oz. of beer directly into my left eye when flailing dancers erupt because the Hot White chick is twisting on the floor all pained and sexy and furious. I should have worn the goggles.
Night two of Titwrench.
Let me tell you about Rusalka. Crushing, just crushing. Audience presses in tight, clumps around her table on the floor. We contract as she pulses. Some people get all choked up. And I don’t think it’s because they’re sad.
Christina the Hun plays drums and sings/speaks/shouts. Her drumming punches one in the neck? Nah. More like a hearty back slap that stings. Her lyrics definitely finger one’s guts. She finishes each song with a sheepish chuckle.
Burrow Owl reads like some high-frequency priestess ushering in piercing, saw factory-like sonics with slight movements of her raised arm.
Hell-Kite’s voice is probably my favorite of the weekend. And that’s saying something because singing talent squirts amply from the Tit(wrench).
And more. More I didn’t film.
Someone else will have to tell you about night three. Jobs, etc., yank us back home. Driving out of Denver we wonder: How will the festival organizers make it through another night? After Friday, they look spent. After Saturday? Damn. And still, another frantic, astonishing evening in front of them. Can’t wait for 2010. Thank you, women of the wrench.