June 27th, 2007 |

SUNDAY, JUNE 25: By the time you read this, high rise offices all across Manhattan will be experiencing a crime against nature of the highest degree. Superchunk, that great band of the nineties—the rallying cry and voice of a now-yuppified generation—came together to sweat it out at Williamsburg’s McCarren Pool for the first day of Jelly New York’s weekend pool parties. As fun as it was watching you happy balding men pogo around like it was 1994, it was sorta gross also watching your white little bald spots turn bright pink and then fire engine red. And seriously, there is nothing sicker than summer concert foot.

If by chance you aren’t sure which category your feet fall into, I’ll make a list. You cannot wear sandals if you 1) have those fat toes where the nails curl under and it looks like you have E.T feet or 2) your toes are hairy. The exception to this is if you have cute toes and you do some form of hair upkeep—wax or shave, which only applies to girls. Then 3) you have those weird feet that are really short and collect sweat and dirt and look like tiny naked pigs or 4) you have hard white homeless heels and the cracks in your skin could irrigate fields. Exfoliate!

Now you may be saying to yourself, “Bitch, I bet you have cute toes and get pedicures ten times a day and that’s why you’re so unreasonable. I just want to air out my feet—wiggle the piggies! It’s summer for God’s sake!” Wrong! I get pedicures about twice a month and try to make the best of what I’ve got. I’m adamant about this because I have a foot fetish. Unlike other fetishes people hear foot fetish and assume that any ol’ pair of stanky feet will turn you on. Sooooo wrong! It makes you pickier about the pairs you bring into the bedroom. So imagine our repulsion, fellow fetishists, when the entire human race uses summer as an excuse to be disgusting.

So Superchunk was super old. This guy Crazy Tony was dressed in a bright orange and yellow matching Hawaiian shirt and shorts combo, Buddy/Elvis glasses and a crew cut. Crazy Tony’s been to every Superchunk show since he discovered them in college and when they came on stage, he proceeded to scream like my mom having sex with all four of the Beatles in 1964. I mean, really, I had no idea. Superchunk?! They played the hits and the hits were fun. I stood there feeling like Kyle Broflovski in South Park, like, really? Pavement maybe, but Superchunk? Really?

But enough about that. Let’s talk about Oakley Hall. The best fucking thing to happen to a fiddle since The Devil Went Down to Georgia. They opened for God Superchunk and they ripped every twangy hipster band a new asshole. Their brand of harmonizing and riffing is truly a step above the rest and enters into the category of people who are musicians and not just kid experimenters. The songs slice into one another in a way that makes you wish you weren’t standing in a giant empty pool surrounded by dirty hipsters and old men, but on a porch in a swamp watching alligators and doing the do-si-do.

Happy summer! Keep your shoes on, your heart open, and stay out late. You can go to work in the winter. After all, time waits for no one. Except, I guess Superchunk.

Reporting Live from New York,
I’m Nikki Darling and You’re not!