(Ed. note: I'm on vacation in Wisconsin now, so I have the fierce-fab writer and photographer AJ Dent sitting in today -- always an honor to host her work here! I send her a thousand thanks!)
I hate to admit this, but you know the rubbish I mentioned earlier? Well, Thursday was in the throes of the Charleston shooting. Earlier in the evening I’d shared a couple articles about it on Facebook, the beast that too often bites the hand that feeds. Between the first and second set of the night, my phone began blowing up with some good ol’ fashioned hate mail from people in my past. I should’ve kept my eyes on the prize, looking to the gods of rock and roll, but I foolishly went out for a stroll to verbally combat the nonsense pouring in, aiming to make it back for at least a couple of the next band’s songs. You know what happened next. I dash in, phone already dying, only to find the set ended earlier than expected.
Feeling miles away from the drama of the day, I was ready for the final set of the night. The Piniellas were just as I’d been promised by a pal: feel-good punk, pop, and more punk. All the fun of the Ramones, the fever of the approaching Solstice, and hooks so suckerpunchy you’d think you were in your childhood home’s basement, fighting with your brother.