Because they are loud and because they are sexy (Heisenflei’s hair is most likely an inter-dimensional brushfire flickering into our plane of existence, still dangerous, though, beware), the Pity Party, even when they begin to meander, even when you begin to feel that they should be giving you something more to cling to, there is still an irresistible, criminal propulsion, as if they’re in a noir Cadillac, fleeing a bloodbath of their own making, driving in dusty circles, in the desert, because they’re exhilarated and know the authorities will be looking for fugitives with a destination.

At 5 Star Bar, as part of Spirit Vine’s month long residency, Heisenflei and M were drenched in sweat and nightmare psychedelia video projection, sequestered beneath a balcony, primitive warriors emerging from a cave, in the midst of hallucinatory, plant-fueled cosmic understandings.  M hunched over his guitar as suburban housewives giving birth were projected over his shoulder into the darkness behind.  Heisenflei’s singing, when it becomes frenzied, seems increasingly atonal and chant-like.  When it all ends and they regain composure, the scariness dissipated, they somehow become adorable, like Gremlins if you watch it in reverse.

They were soon followed by the residents of the month, Spirit Vine, who were there to remind everyone that Jefferson Airplane is also a thing.  Somehow, suddenly, San Francisco ’68 (right before the hard drugs really fucked everyone’s shit up and before Altamont was all, like, bloody, man) was dripping from the ceiling.  Jacqueline Cingolani, all with acid-wracked moaning and uncontrollable stomping foot, converged on the surrounding crowd, pulling them towards her, perhaps in hopes that the epically tall and mulleted bassist would turn into some hallucinatory lizard grandfather monster and feed, while the guitars fuzzed flowers into the cosmic universe brain.

—Gerard Olson