When I was younger and more interesting, I used to go out. Honestly. I would leave my home, alter my consciousness, and pay to be entertained—often by musicians. Some of these musicians are in a band called Lesion, a quartet of gleeful nihilists who have authored such classics as “Clone Boner” and “You Ruined Christmas Again.”
When my wife was eight months pregnant, Lesion held its first “Classic Album Night,” a mélange of covers off of Kiss’s Destroyer and Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours. (I've reproduced the band's artwork here because its brilliance defies description. You can view the rest here.) We rocked out to a spectacularly raucous version of “Second Hand News,” and the mid-song segué from “Do You Love Me?” to “The Chain” was particularly inspired. It was Robert’s first rock concert, and he spent much of the show kicking furiously, in perfect 8/4 tempo, within my wife’s pleather maternity pants.
Apparently, the band has gotten word that we’re expecting another child, because its next fusion show is upon us. This time, Gibbs and Pistols will be mulched together to form “Saturday Night Bollocks,” and already my mind is racing. (What combos will they come up with? “Flayin’ Alive”? “How Deep Is Your Wound”?) I’m also gratified and astounded that these two watershed events in the history of ironic performance metal-rock would coincide with our pregnancies. Like most parents, I want each kid to start off with an equal footing.
So tonight, this born-again homebody, who reads Time Out New York strictly for the vicarious thrill, will be boogie-moshing alongside a hot mama with a big belly and shiny black trousers. We’ll let you know if the new kid has any rhythm.