The lovable misfits of Diarrhea Planet spent last Saturday night floating amid the smoke haze, gas and beer stained garage rock oasis that is the Zombie Shop. Meshed in with a cagey tribe wisdom of rebellious creators, lip rings and brown mobs, the band was lifted and surrounded, exchanging their posts on stage for the heavenly ring of the pit. Camouflaged by sweat and family violence, the planet morphed into an insidious galvanization of mischievous gluttons forming the bowls of the creative marsh land below broken lamps strung out from the mechanical glow of the universe.
Outside, near the fire pit and cracked-out-vehicles-turned-theater seating, loners sneak glances at rock gods in leather jackets and cow hide boots, similar, but more expensive than the stagnant Nashville uniform worn by the gaggles of jolly pranksters who suck in the night air, enjoying the coma of hallucinating weeds and chasing the tail of the night, hoping to lasso through the youngsters and heavy brawlers to take an ear shot of The Ettes.
From California to jump on the spokes of the Nashville bandwagon, The Ettes kept stamina with the rowdy grind thanks to a miraculous drummer who resembled a spider, ninja, and octopus all at once who struck oil with windmill hits, her face a dark blur of hair and pure cannibalistic beauty. The Ettes managed to keep the crowd afloat as their hype deserves mention and anyone taking route to Nashville, lending late nights of sequestered distortion make their own space at historic degrees.
As the night closed and the search for the garage rock Bob Dylan left the crowd aloof another night, and churning gut concert bottom feeders bought out the remaining beer and crapes, little Jack still nursing conversation near the fire, the night chimed out to Easter Sunday, where some of those who fired spirit into the early hours of morning roam in the distant light searching for families, but for bands like Diarrhea Planet, they are creating a Nashville family; honest, brutal, and untamed. – Dh Wright