Issue No. 3

Details of the War:
Clap Your Hands Say Yeah
North Six, Brooklyn NY
Friday, April 15, 2005
Maxwell Fig

The only thing worse than a hellish day of disaster, is a hellish day of disaster where I get what I want. Everything worked out yesterday, but nothing went smoothly. The plan was to have breakfast and take care of some business, then drive to New York to see Clap Your Hands Say Yeah play at North Six in Brooklyn and cover the show. After a long wait behind a man who only brought a debit card, I got my car. The money didn't officially go through on my card, yet I found myself driving a brand new white Pontiac out of the rental lot. All hope of a smooth cruise through town was immediately extinguished by the horrible traffic everywhere - it was tax day. I won't go into why I didn't file this year, but my traveling companion, whose name will go unmentioned, did, so I drove her to the post office. Traffic jams were not where or when they were supposed to be. This created bad tensions between us. It was a long morning, and a longer afternoon. Was that perfect breakfast of waffles and coffee worth the tears? Maybe it was.

I am calm behind the wheel. I love driving in the city, but if I have somewhere to be at a certain time, and there is heavy city traffic, I become unraveled. My partner was exceptionally patient. Nobody calls me except her, and her reward for her unconditional devotion to me was to witness my ugliness. Though I had little sleep, there's no excuse for my behavior. Anyone else would have run screaming from the car, but instead she corrected me rationally, which helped me think more clearly. Nevertheless, I missed every exit and we paid dearly for it in lost time and tolls. When we finally reached exit 14 driving south on the turnpike, the traffic was at a complete standstill. I lost my nerve and got out of the car. I began walking toward the highest part of the off-ramp to throw myself from the side. I was in a fast rental car, smoking camels and listening to Electric Six with a beautiful young woman, and we were on our way to New York to cover a rock show for Magnaphone. Why was I not having fun? If there is one thing I will not tolerate, it's arriving at a show when the band is loading their instruments into the van. When I reached an ideal spot, I stood a while in repose, thinking about why all of my relationships go sour. New York City is so beautiful at night, when it's far away. The slowly moving traffic allowed my companion to drive to where I was standing, and without a word I got in. There was night-time construction on the bridge, so the traffic gave way to the fastest cruise through the Holland Tunnel I've ever made, day or night. Once we were in town, we drove through Soho to the end of Houston Street only to find they moved the fucking Williamsburg Bridge from Houston to Delancey. I was told the band would go on at 10. It was nearly 11 when we finally found North Six in the maze of Brooklyn. There were moments I thought we'd get there at 1am, or never, but hope was not lost. There was no trouble over the guest list, and we stepped inside to see a magnificent sight:

Clap Your Hands Say Yeah had just taken the stage and were silhouetting a mass of young listeners inside the sold out show. I can't show you of course, because I forgot my camera. It's a difficult thing to reach in and bring forth from ourselves something so true that it's original, or to take an approach that doesn't involve the utterly superfluous desire to impress someone. The law of performance relativity dictates you can never perform without some amount of self-consciousness, but you can get pretty far from it if you're comfortable with what you're doing. Alec Ounsworth is really something to watch. He plays a harmonica on a neck holder and laughs at his own lyrics, but we know what he means. It's a funny thing to get what you deserve when you're getting what you want. Things went wrong, but they play so well you'd never know it. Grooves were missed and recovered, then locked into so solidly that anyone with enough nerve was dancing. A song started, then stopped, then started again and continued flawlessly. A guitar cable was stepped on and plugged right back in, and a string followed its urge to break free from the bridge of Alec's black Telecaster to dance beside him, dangling from the tuning head. These were not mistakes. Whether they knew it or not, the five beautiful young gentlemen of Clap Your Hands Say Yeah got exactly what they wanted, and so did we.

We stepped outside with Alec for a smoke after the set. I felt battle weary, like I'd been swinging an axe all day. I wanted booze, coffee, and food. It was midnight, but within moments that was almost exactly what I got.

Love,
-Steve Bounds

Keep up with Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, and remember to leave plenty of time for traffic.