• by Kelly Samardak , October 23, 2008

BlackBook and Patron Music For A Cause, Le Royale, New York
October 23, 2008

Have you ever been to New Orleans? I went around the Fourth of July a couple of years ago and I remember being soaked with music. You could just skip from door to door and get a fresh dose of the good stuff. Music is connective tissue. It keeps you grounded in the moment or instantly transports you to a time you almost forgot with just a few bars. Well, it looks like the historically rich and culturally diverse New Orleans still needs help -- and they need help saving their music scene. BlackBook rose to the occasion with their CMJ installment, with cocktails sponsored by Patron -- where guests were asked to tip to benefit the charity "Music In Motion."

We should address the wind situation of last night. It was brutal. Chairs mindlessly set up outside of Steak Frites toppled over, wrestling with each other. My hair blinded me as I waited in line with the Members Only jackets and asymmetrical, barely washed hairs. This bullying wind was not going to be kind to the postage stamp skirt-sporters. My +1 and I got in with no problem, but we were told (mind you, it was 8 p.m., doors were open at 7:30 p.m.) that my +2, who was running late from a volleyball game,  wouldn't be let in as they were already at capacity. Damn you, punctuality!

We entered Le Royale and passed up the $5 raffle. I wanted to enter, but, if this paints a picture for you of my financial situation, I had to pay coat check in quarters AND I wanted to have cash on hand for tips. Believe me; I would rather win the guitar. Must remember to carry at least five bucks at all times! I wandered through the set of "Gossip Girl," I mean, the guests at the party -- and squirreled up to the bar. What were the delicious "tip only" Patron concoctions? I'll tell you. I partook of the Neon Pink Guitar, a lovely mishmash of Patron Reposado, Patron Citronge, cranberry juice, and a squeeze of lime. It was perfect; not easy enough to gulp, but tasty enough to hang onto. My pal Gail had the Los Angeles Margarita, a dangerous combo of Reposado, Patron Citronge, sweet and sour, and a spalsh [sic] of lime.

Waiting for our bartender to move from shake to pour, we giggled with another guest over the rampant misspelling in the signage. Come on, it's funny (don't kill me, Brian). I laugh at my own misspellings, too. I'm an equal opportunity typo titterer. In fact, see if you can find the misspellings on the picture in Flickr. Like a game.

Let's go upstairs and check out the bands! The first on stage was Takka Takka, a gaggle of scruffballs who were just finishing up. While they broke down their set, I surveyed the audience and poked through various cliques in search of familiar faces. The place was packed tightly, which makes it hard to take photos without ramming my pieces and parts into innocent victims. The baldy with the big camera didn't seem to take this into consideration as he launched his body backwards into the kid in front of me to grab shots of the second act, Lissy Trullie.

Lissy Trullie probably hates being compared to other bands that came before her. Who doesn't? Nothing punches you in the lower intestine like a "you pitch/write/sing/look/smell just like Dick Cheney/Mrs. Butterworth/Wilfred Brimley/Avril Lavigne/Joe Torre." Standing a good eight feet tall and all lanky androgyny, balanced on the biggest shoes I've ever seen, sporting strategically snagged stockings and a glossy punk long swooped pixie cut, Lissy Truillie strummed and growled with equal parts Joan Jett and, with Harley the bassist's vocals, equal parts pre-"Malibu" Hole. They had the indie punk vacant expressions down to a science, affecting the unaffected. I like these gals (and the band); I want to make them lasagna and wrap them in fleece blankets to make them smile.

Major weirdness occurred after the bartender decided to shut down earlier than the invitation dictated. We tried to leave and couldn't. Outside, bodies were crammed against the door, prompting my +1 to ram it open, sandwiching the big burly bouncer between the door and the teeming line. We finally squeezed outside into a sea of belly buttons. I'm short. It's practically all I see when dumped into a huge crowd. Claustrophobia ensued, blinding me (while my hair blinded me in the wind) and there's a chance I just climbed and bulldozed over the CMJers clamoring in line for Moby's late night DJ set.

Cliff's Notes! Complimentary Patron beverages = Whoohoo! Bartender telling me at 9:30 p.m. that beverages are no longer complimentary even though the invitation says 8-11, "with complimentary beverages" = Boo! New music = Applause! The scene = Neutral, light applause. I have yet to understand what level I have to reach in order to feel like I'm standing on golden ground and when you stand near me the gold turns to rabbit droppings, but I'm not there yet. Some of the guests were golden-grounders. A good few were not, which made up for it. And I love me some Brian Kantor, Director, BlackBook Guides, and permanently in some sort of finely tailored jacket. Being on the BlackBook party list = Encore, can't wait for the next sociological experiment.

Invite kelly@mediapost.com to your rockin' riot and get your Just An Online Minute of fame.

Get your band photo fix in the Flickr set!

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