As I approached the Sinclair Tuesday night, for sale the line to enter spilled down the venue’s front steps, cialis curving around the bend and down into an adjacent alley. Kids in pairs and groups of three or four clutched 8.5×11 Ticketmaster print-outs, some of them coolly fingering cigarettes, most of them assuming a nonchalant stance to cloak their excitement, these kids who’d paid twenty bucks to see some bands.
When the line began to move, most entered through the doors past bouncers bag- and ID-checking, a few dejectedly retreating back down the Sinclair’s steps, already mumbling disappointments into their smart phones, “Yeah, man. Yeah, it’s sold out.”
And after watching Wavves’ live show – together with King Tuff and Jacuzzi Boys – I can see why.
Kicking off the night were Miami’s Jacuzzi Boys, a trio whose most recent self-titled release dropped this past June. They ripped through the air heavy with the crowd’s anticipation, loud and raw, despite all the reviews I’ve read about their albums being “mellow.”
Lead singer Gabriel Alcala sang wide-mouthed through the part in his long hair, his voice reminiscent of The Boys’ Matt Dangerfield or 999’s Nick Cash. Clad in loose jeans, his knees bending and Elvis’ing at solos and breakdowns, he was the picture of ‘70s punk throwbacks. Drummer Diego Monasterios sat freely behind the kit, the hood of his hoodie resting above his baseball cap, casually bashing the drive through each song, periodically taking a moment to spit off to the side. Danny Gonzalez held down rhythm, too, bouncing his head, his alliances visible on his James Gang “Miami” t-shirt. The crowd began to mosh and pogo early on in the set, too, the kids a sea of bodies bobbing into one another, setting the tone for the evening. They closed out their set with “Fruits,” a song from their debut No Seasons, surfy and breezy to listen to but a fury to watch live.
King Tuff (Kyle Thomas) followed, burly and jean-vested, properly flared in pins and buttons, a beard, an ironic trucker hat. King Tuff’s releases (Was Dead and the self-titled) are notoriously catchy, the kind of music that begs to be moved to, poppy rock-and-roll hooks abounding. His appeal, too, is his stage presence, the permanent smile, as if this is a dude genuinely glad you’re jumping to his music despite the beer in your hand. He rounded out his set with “Bad Thing,” off his latest release, a song the audience crooned to along with him, yelling the chorus along with him, too.
San Diego’s Wavves continued to fuel this audience’s sweaty fire, boys and girls moshing just as hard as they had been all night from Wavves’ onset. Playing in front of a horizontal tie-dyed ying yang back drop, they punctuated the night with their version of indie pop punk, music pied-pipering a listener to dance, snake-charmer-like – you can’t help but move to their infectious tunes, which the crowd employed with stage dives, something the Sinclair didn’t seem to expect, the lone venue employee awkwardly finding his way around Wavves’ members to toss stage-bound girls and boys back from where they came.
With the beating heart of Stephen Pope’s Flying V bass, their rhythm section was tight and spot on, singer/guitarist Nathan Williams giving himself to a crowd still dancing and jumping and moving and singing along, their pounding felt even at Sinclair’s balcony level. Despite a small blip of a song restart with Williams’ strap falling off, Wavves was warm with the crowd, thanking Boston or Cambridge or wherever they were, thanking whomever it was that sent the band shots, eventually leaving the stage like the thunder that follows a bolt.