Because we’re all performers in this life; we’re all part of this wonderful story. We want you to feel that way at our shows. And also after our shows. Definitely after.
Underground while on a beautiful day, waiting at Delancey-Essex for an F train to Brooklyn: across the platform a frumpy housewife in a floral housedress furiously beats a garbage can’s worth of soul into a guitar, singing a big, wild, and sweetly strange sound through sweaty strands of swinging black wig. No crowd had formed; people mill around staring at their phones, rummaging in their pockets, counting annoyances. I think about things; I think of other things. But as I listened, the sounds began to resolve themselves into a peculiar, haunting melody. I turned toward the music, straining to understand. Other people did the same. A mom admonishing her kids stopped when her kids stopped and turned, mesmerized. A tiny lady with a cart rested on it and watched. A couple looked at each other’s raised eyebrows and cracked a smile. You could look at anyone without headphones and for a New York Minute there, if you caught their eye, you’d see the glimmer. I abandoned my post and made the trek up and over to the other platform. What am I doing?—aww, shit, there goes my train—but I have to know, what is this delightful song that’s so unlike anything I like? And who is this woman with the fashion sense of a free pile and a spooky, sugary warble like the reincarnation of Billie Holiday? Who has the singular ability to make magic out of a nasty train station? Who would want to? I have always admired people who can belt it out on the subway. But Claudi of Pinc Louds, whom I met that day, belts it out like suspenders are going out of fashion. Their music is downright fun, and inventive, and wacky, and a whole bunch of other things I never am except for when I listen to it. Today marks the release of their debut album, Delancey St. Station.