I was trying to listen to the Monks, but the stylus fell off my record player, so I spent yesterday so wet, jumping between the SPCA, Zulu, Salvation Army, the Catholic thrift store, finally Dandelion, trying to find a turntable. Didn’t. I found a reel-to-reel recorder though. “Two dollars,” the woman said, “As is. I don’t think it works; you’ll have to do some work on it.” I plugged it in, turned up the volume, threaded the tape, pressed play. It works fine. Golden. Inside was the above picture, and a small metal relief of Jesus. Too rad.

“See all you hipsters there, that would otherwise never step foot into the Alf House for any other show. I will be the belligerent punk pouring beer all over you. Get stoked.”

That guy didn’t live up to his promise. Didn’t show up for his date. Tyvek, supposed to be over at 11, played straight-from-Detroit garage trash to the packed ‘n’ claustrophobic basement a couple months after they opened for Dead Weather at the Commodore. Forty-five minutes was a long time to play, but as they finished at midnight people were still enjoying it.

I can’t tell if the kids from Hitler’s Cock (fka Staring Problems) were into it. They’re always having more fun than everyone else at everyone else’s expense,. Did they like Tyvek? Did they hate Tyvek? They were definitely enjoying themselves, just like when they told off the APC, just like when they trashed Defiance, Ohio. Too punk for politics? If that kind of confrontation (along with more Angry Samoans covers) showed up musically I’d make the effort to go see them more.

Context contorted Tyvek into something primitive and punk, but fun at the same time. Compared to the Peanut Gallery they had all the harshness / speed / sloppiness / don’t care chords fun that I wish high school kids would figure out. The only thing giving it away was the bass, plodding, more hoedown than Chuck Dukowski.