Hank & Cupcakes

I messed up. I thought the band we were hoping to see, The VeeVees, fronted by the incredible and astounding Sophia Urista, were opening for Hank and Cupcakes but it turns out it was another band. We were disappointed, and I felt like an idiot, but we had already bought our tickets so we decided to go anyway. As AR says, if it's great, then excellent, you just saw an unexpectedly awesome show. If it sucks, you get to make fun of it. So either way it would work out.

We stepped inside Le Poisson Rouge, which was wonderfully chilly with air conditioning and a welcome reprieve from the oppressive August humidity currently plaguing the city. In the basement of the venue, we found ourselves a spot and assumed our "New York music snob stance," arms folded in front of us, daring performers to just try impressing us.

I had never heard of Hank and Cupcakes, but apparently this was the New York record release show of their new album, Cheap Thrill, which debuted July 1. After the (rather forgettable) opening band departed the stage, setup for H&C began, which included a standing drum kit, a bass guitar, and network of interconnected stretched fabric painted over with hearts and eyes suns and moons in bold colors. I wondered what we had gotten ourselves into.

Shortly, the band came out. It was just two people: a slim, mohawked, shirtless man with a ruff of black chest hair who wore skinny jeans and black Chuck Taylors and a teeny little woman who had shaved sides of her head, her dark hair twisted up into a bun. She was shoeless, wearing only leggings and a minuscule crop top that read "Bitch Relax." Oh, and she was pregnant (about seven months in, she'd say later). Her naked-and no-fucks-given belly hung like some kind mystical orb above her hips as she took her place behind the drums.

And then they started playing. It was truly something electric to watch them, to watch Hank annihilate the strings of his bass and Cupcakes thrash her drum kit while her Beth Ditto-like voice gorgeously shrieks out of her mouth. I have never seen a pregnant woman rock so hard, and the experience of seeing her has reversed (well, let's be real, diminished is more like it) my fear of having children. With each song, the hard rocking escalates and I am moved to shake with abandon, untwirling my hair from its bun and banging my head to the beat, stamping my feet and swiveling my hips in time with the beat of her drum, the thrum of his bass. I love a good concert, but it takes a lot for me to be physically moved by it. But at a certain point I can't control it and my body is just moving independently of me. "TAKE ME TO CHURCH!" I shout through a smile as my arms fly upward. I am a congregant at the temple of rock and roll, possessed by the spirit of an unrelenting drumbeat. I am saved.

Cupcakes radiates energy and though Hank is playing that bass for his life I cannot stop looking at her. YOU ARE EVERYTHING! I think to myself. Has there ever been anything more punk rock than this petite Cupcakes pounding her drum kit while a life two months from beginning grows inside of her? What a way to start off in the world. I am almost jealous of this unborn baby: its home is a rock and roll machine, its blood pulsing to the time of a snare.

At one point Cupcakes climbs on top of the drum kit and sings an acoustic song about the importance of religious freedom and the crowd goes quiet, singing along and using only hands patting against chests as their instruments. I don't like to sing, but my hand beats against my own sternum in solidarity. The crowd is small but enthusiastic, their eyes not turned toward phones but to Hank & Cupcakes, the way concerts were when I was a teenager. The way I wished they still were.

Cupcakes speaks in an accent I can't quite identify, but I've learned now that it's not an Australian one as I had thought, but Israeli. The band formed in Tel Aviv in 2008 and are now currently based in Atlanta. They named themselves after Charles Bukowski's alter ego, Hank Chinaski, and the nickname of a lady friend, Pamela "Cupcakes" Wood. By day they are Sagit Shir (Cupcakes) and Ariel Scherbacovsky (Hank), and they met while serving in the Israeli Army. Cheap Thrill is their third album.

After the show, AR and I make a point of going to their merch table and making a purchase. For me, it's a t-shirt, and for him, it's their new album. "If you put on a show like that, I'm going to buy an album as a thank you," he says as we leave. I can't help but agree.

Crabs, Pastries, and A Beautiful Death

At about 8:30 on Friday night I was cracking into a crab leg with my teeth. It tasted of creamy, yellow coconut curry. I peeled away the shell to reveal a thick pocket of leg meat and hungrily chewed on the morsel before starting the process all over again with another leg.

The bucket of crab legs and shrimp AR and I got came with a side of rubber gloves for avoiding messy hands, but I soon peeled mine off because I felt like I was conducting an autopsy. I also felt like I owed it to my South Florida roots to dig into the legs and the shrimp with my bare hands, soggy skin and fingernails be damned. And while having food detritus stuck under my fingernails is one of my greatest pet peeves, the annoyance was totally worth it to immerse myself more fully in the seafood experience we were having.

AR and I were dining at LoLo's Seafood Shack, on W. 116th Street and Frederick Douglass Boulevard in Harlem. The restaurant features Caribbean-inspired cooking (order before sitting, please!) ranging from conch fritters to seafood boils and much more. Entering the tiny vestibule where a line of people are curling away from the door, you might not know there's a host of tables in the back, down a slim, pastel-colored hallway.

Seeing all the tables inside the tiny, yet colorful and friendly joint were taken, AR and I went outside to the restaurant's back patio and ended up having the space all to ourselves. The night was just a little too chilly for the faint of heart to eat outside, but luckily such a phrase did not apply to us. We found ourselves at an aqua-colored picnic table sinking our teeth into not just the aforementioned crab and shrimp boil, but wok seared cauliflower and jerk-rubbed pork ribs. I couldn't believe our luck at trying the place on a whim, but it turns out the restaurant is also a Critic's Pick in The New York Times. Who knew? We left, delighted and satiated by dinner. AR was curious about a potential sweet snack however. Was there a bakery nearby?

Indeed there was: Patisserie Les Ambassades on Frederick Douglass between 118th and 119th, which defines itself as a French-African BYO cafe. We availed ourselves of a linzer tart (sweet and slightly lemony and just crunchy enough) and a vanilla eclair (the custard was simply devoom) and marveled at everyone whose style was much better than ours, including a man unironically wearing a neutral leather harness around his waist instead of his shoulders as a fashion statement. If I could wear such a thing without it swallowing my hips I might very well do so.

Sweetened up, we made our way a few more blocks north to our ultimate destination, the Apollo Music Cafe inside the historic Apollo Theatre. The utterly spellbinding, phenomenal singer Sophia Urista was playing, and I found it important for AR's musical education to drag him along with me. I had seen Sophia perform many, many moons ago at an art salon in the studio of photographer Gilles Larrain and had remembered her ever since. I had tried to get out to see her several times before (she is also the lead singer of NYC-based band The VeeVees), but every time had failed. This time, though, I knew I had to get there and take someone who would appreciate her with me. Because really, she's not just a singer. She's Tina Turner, Janis Joplin, Robert Plant, Kurt Cobain, Prince, and Mick Jagger all rolled into one. For her opening song she sang a blues tune a capella that melted my innards. I had to force myself not to let my jaw hang open as she electrocuted the notes with her vocal shockwaves, holding my head in my hands to keep it from falling off of my body. As her raw, powerful, soul-quaking, funk/rock/blues/soul performance went on I felt the words WHAT IS HAPPENING fall out of my mouth several times. I looked over at AR who was having a similar experience. She killed us both, and what a delightful death it was.

"She makes me question my sexuality!" I joked to AR.
"She confirms my sexuality," he said, laughing. "Do you think she needs any groupies?"

Sophia, if you're reading this, my buddy AR is into it if you are.