Edie Sedgwick

Edie Sedgwick: Warhol superstar and dead of a drug overdose in 1971 at age 28. Edie Sedgwick is also the nom de electro-pop of D.C.'s Justin Moyer -- late of punk outfit El Guapo -- who, mimicking his namesake, dons silver dresses, tights, and blonde wigs and sings celebrity-infested songs about Mary-Kate Olsen, Rob Lowe, and Sissy Spacek called "Mary-Kate Olsen," "Rob Lowe," and "Sissy Spacek." Charged by Philadelphia Weekly with covering Edie's free 8 p.m. performance at clothing boutique Deep Sleep down in Old City last night, I drove down there late, completely forgetting the fact that it was First Friday and it would be an utter madhouse in the OC, which it was. Fortunately, I arrived just as a guy was warming up the 25-or-30-strong crowd for Edie's arrival with stand-up comedy so intentionally and uncomfortably unfunny it was funny (Sample joke: "Who here likes The Office? [smattering of applause] That show is so funny because it's this guy who runs a paper company but he doesn't really know what he's doing. It's so funny."). He also asked for a moment of silence for Paul Newman that lasted for about four minutes, while he turned around and appeared to simulate masturbation.

And then Edie came on, joined by a mostly female band -- two backup singers, a drummer, and bassist, decked out in black dresses and white gloves (semi-a la Robert Palmer's "Addicted to Love" vid) -- plus a dude on keyboards clad in indie-rock button down shirt, jeans, and sneakers (obv. not down with the costume party). Edie and company romped through tracks from his/her/their new Dischord album, Things Are Getting Sinister and Sinisterer, with the help of a projection screen that showed clips from Carrie when he sang "Sissy Spacek" and Natural Born Killers when he sang, well, "Natural Born Killers." The audience thinned out to maybe 12 people or so by the end of the half-hour performance, with a couple skater kids snatching the two bags of Oreos and remaining three cans of Red Bull set out for people and scampering off like they'd just broken the store window with a rock.

These kinds of environments (boutiques, record stores, etc.) are always strange to shoot photos in because you never know what the setup is gonna be, but generally I approach them like the basement or house shows I sometimes shoot and assume I'll need to use flash, and hope the performer is dynamic enough to overcome the often mundane surroundings free of dramatic stage lights and atmosphere. Which Edie was, so I think I got some pretty decent shots. Edie/Justin was very nice afterward, as well, letting me snap a few quick portraits before I headed back out into the First Friday madness.

Deerhunter

So I found a parking spot directly outside the First Unitarian Church, which was rare and very nice considering the pouring rain. The doors were supposed to be at eight, but typical for FUC, there was still a line out front at 8:20 or so, since their volunteer staff is never there on time. I huddled in a doorway for a few minutes, then made my way inside, past whatever it is that smells like vomit as you head down the stairs to the basement (I don't think it's actual vomit, but rather some sort of gag-inducing foliage). Saw the asshole chick who tried to knock the camera out of my hands at the Vivian Girls show a month or so ago because I was using flash, and that caused me a moment's stress, but I don't think she saw me. The basement was far from packed, so I was able to get right up front for a good photography vantage point, which is rare and very nice at FUC. The lighting there isn't very good at all, so I used my Speedlite and bounced the flash off the low ceiling, which gave me pretty good results.

Knyfe Hyts opened -- had never heard them before but their spastic-rock was pretty swell, if not so much all the chest hair being flaunted. The girl from Times New Viking had a sticker on her keyboard that was signed by all the members of the Clean, which I thought was neat. TNV was good, although they got their biggest cheers not after the songs but when they made a reference to President Obama. The drummer kept insisting the guy next to me in the crowd play their tambourine along to the songs, which the guy did, albeit reluctantly. Ran into my friend Tiffany, who was also there taking photos, and that's always cool. Then Deerhunter -- who are better than Deerhoof, Deer Tick, and most of the other "deer" bands -- came on, and they were great ... kinda made me think of a more elegant, anthemic My Bloody Valentine meets the Fall. Or something like that. I'm not a gearhead by any means, but I do play guitar and I definitely coveted the one guitar player's olive, hollowbody Fender Coronado. Keep me in mind this holiday season. Anyway, they sounded fantastic, but this lingering cough I have, the last remnant of the annoying cold that hit me two weeks ago (and which I passed along to my girlfriend, much to her delight), has been making my ribs hurt, so after a half-dozen songs I headed back out into the rainy night. Sorry, Deerhunter. Hope you like the photos.

Tickle Me, Hobo

I stood outside the Tin Angel on South Second Street, on the phone with my girlfriend, Laura. Minutes earlier, I had photographed French acoustic-pop duo Herman Dune, or tried my best to, anyhow. Long and narrow, the Tin Angel is a submarine masquerading as a rock (well, singer-songwritery) club, and it was overpacked -- not for Herman Dune, necessarily, but for headliner Jolie Holland, whom I was was there to photograph for Philadelphia Weekly -- and there was absolutely nowhere to stand to get shots that wasn't in the way of the seated throng. I made my way close to the tiny stage to get a few shots, and barely 30 seconds into doing so, the murmurs began and two people tapped me on the shoulder to inform me I was blocking their view, so I beat a retreat down to the street and debated whether I'd be able to get any decent shots of Holland before the angry crowd might tear me to bits.

As I leaned against a parking meter and whined about the situation on the phone to Laura, a rather homeless and harmless looking fellow on a bicycle slowly rode past me on the sidewalk. As he got to where I was standing, he dismounted and pulled out a leafy branch that had gotten caught in his rear spokes at some recent point in his evening's travels. "It's sage!" he cried out, looking at me. And then he took the branch and poked-slash-tickled me in the shoulder with it for a few seconds as I stood there, rather puzzled, going "Uhhhhh...." into the phone. And then he rode off. "What's going on?" Laura asked, sensing the weirdness that had just taken place. I told her, and she laughed for a solid three minutes. And then I walked to my car and drove home. I'll have to photograph Jolie Holland another night.

Philadelphia Pinata Failure

They unveiled "the world's largest pinata" in South Philadelphia today, and promised to bash it open with a wrecking ball, spilling a few tons of candy down on the vacant, decrepit, garbage strewn, cracked-concrete lot at the corner of Broad and Washington, in the process setting a Guinness world record. However, it was called off when the organizers (Carnival Cruises) and a small contingent of Philadelphia motorcycle cops determined -- according to the Daily Pennsylvanian -- that "the breaking would cause a surge of running to grab the pinata's contents." (You don't say?!)

So when the loudspeakered announcement came after a few hours of build-up (and the filming of a Carnival commercial -- the whole event seemed like a stunt/scam to draw a big crowd for their nefarious advertising purposes) that there would be no candy spilling from the guts of the six-story pinata, and that the several thousand onlookers (including many disappointed children and their angry parents) needed to leave the area immediately, a few hundred people began rushing toward the pinata, booing and yelling "Push it over!" The two dozen or so motorcycle cops then formed a protective ring around the pinata, although the one I photographed didn't seem concerned enough about a potential riot to put out his cigarette. Indeed, the crowd quickly dispersed without the need for tear gas or rubber bullets. This, I lamented, as such a scene beneath a six-story, brightly-hued pinata may have made for one of the best photographs ever.