A wink and a punch from America's premier junk rock band. The last bastion of old New York Rock and Roll.
What was once great about New York's East Village was simple: you never knew what was going to be around the corner. Every walk to the bodega, every first kiss, and every lunch al fresco was at risk of being marred by drunken brawls, muggings or homeless junkies squabbling in the streets. It was this randomness itself, and the Russian Roulette-style danger inherent in even the simplest outdoor ventures, that made the East Village a fun, special, crazy, vibrant place. If, at any hour of the day or night, you could still walk into a random bar and A) get drunk, B) get laid and C) check out some no-name band of well-meaning fuckups-all in one random bar (and all for free), wouldn't New York City still be a fun, special, crazy, vibrant place to hang your hat?
But, long before most of us made it here, someone looked down from his ivory tower that a good time was being had down here in the streets, threw a pile of money at that good time, and lo and behold, that good time has largely disappeared from Gotham City. Nowadays, getting drunk in the East Village involves $15 cocktails at some chintzily-lit Japanese/French/Mexican tapas hellhole, getting laid takes dressing up like a North Jersey "waste management specialist," and checking out a good rock band (or any band, most nights) requires a hefty cover, dress code and stifling the violent rage that erupts upon entering a designer clothing store that now exists where CBGB once stood.
I do not believe The Sweet Ones do anything that resembles a real job, but they do live and play in the East Village. And their debut EP for Crafty Records, We Work Harder, certainly lives up to its title. A spartan seven songs in fifteen minutes, We Work Harder is the sound of one particular no-name band of well-meaning fuckups conveying their good intentions into razor-sharp, tongue-in-cheek punk rock that calls to mind a New York City that is quickly eroding into memory.
Frontman Doug Cote is one part Mojo Nixon, one part Modern Lovers-era Jonathan Richman and one part D. Boon (but svelte!). All smiles, Cote knows the job of a good lead singer: get the people on their feet. Mike Strauss carries the low end (and a lot of the melody) with four-fingered dexterity on par with any fusion bassist. Although he never seems to be showing off, I'd be one to bet that Strauss harbors a mancrush on Les Claypool, and can pull out a couple of those serpentine basslines, if you press him.
And that drummer, man. I don't think Matt Brundrett has ever played four straight bars right in a row. Pulling double time in The Sweet Ones and Guitar Bomb (who've evolved from guy-with-loop-station rock into an honest-to-Gosh rock band), Brundrett's drums skitter and shake with their own melody, emphasising the blood and sweat emanating from Cote and Strauss, and bolstering Cote's mission to get everyone moving.
Whether rocking, amps to eleven, at any of the few remaining hole in the wall bars in the disappearing East Village or playing a stripped-down acoustic set for a more relaxed (but no less fun-inclined) crowd-or sometimes doing both at once- The Sweet Ones are, quite possibly, the last remaining holdout of Old New York. Fun, random, possibly violent; if you turn a random corner and happen upon a Sweet Ones show, consider yourself lucky. You're in for a good time.
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