all the reviews that's fit to print

I wrote this piece; a review of the Ponys show at the Logan Square Auditorium last month for Thirsty Media. However, it wasn't glowing enough for them to print, so they didn't. Here it is in it's entirety, in case anyone feels like reading a passionately luke-warm review.

Pony Up

After so much buzz, I must admit, that I expected more from Chicago's precious Ponys. I will understand if you desire to send me letter bombs, but Thirsty has graciously agreed to withhold my mailing address. It's just my humble honest opinion, but because it's mine I feel I am correct. Truth be told, I have absolutely no history with the band. I don't know their names, I don't know where they came from and how they got their start. I listened to a few tracks off of their MySpace page previous to attending the show at Logan Square, but that's about as far back as we go. But history or no, they did absolutely nothing for me; musically or otherwise. At some point though, I'm going to have to break from my hyper-critical analytical binge and realize that a band that obviously cares as much about what they're doing and touts a cadre of pleasant loyal fans can't even begin to approximate being all bad. To say I wish ill of the Ponys would not be exaggeration; it would be patently false. Feel free to mix up and republish that quote to make me seem like a jackass. The fact that I was unmoved says nothing as to their effectiveness as a weapon in the war on boring rock music. I was caught off guard by their sound frankly. They would have been right at home in the early 90's sharing a bill will the likes of the Dandy Warhols and other such neo-psych shoegazy jangly alt-rock revelers. And then there was me expecting snarling punk fury; a sentiment that the Black Lips came much closer to affecting (from Georgia, but to say nothing of state allegiances on the authors part. Believe me, Illinois would be victorious anyway) but despite spitting, vomiting, and all manner of caterwauling, they still came off too clean to really rub me enough of one way or the other. It amazes me that a band so clearly dedicated to sex, drugs, and debauchery, can scream all they want, can toss around their equipment, and can still come out the other end pretty and polished. Maybe that is a feat worthy of praise, but I'd still just rather they at least sound like they're throwing up while they're making a racket.

But back to the Ponys. Despite the familial resemblance the frontman bore to both Michael Gira, and Thurston Moore, not a scrape of that dirty New York noise found its way into his blood stream, and a potentially powerful band ends up wallowing in anemic hooky neo-psych rock for lack of it. I lost interest rather quickly, and could only think that perhaps they would fare much better on my stereo at home while I was writing something like a review of their show. I think I was right, but good on 'em anyway for having heart.