September 21, 2013 by sshhoobbmmxxbblloogg
Like mixing Xanax with a sugar cube, GIANT DRAG was always a band at odds with both itself and the world. Part post-indie, part manifesto against a stagnant LA scene, Annie Hardy and her revolving cast of drummers and additional six stringers spent the last decade courting the media and concurrently pushing against it.
Any tinpot blog or hipster bible will regale the multi album deal, the big promises and the subsequent ass fucking. The highs, lows and cats.
This isn’t it, to quote one of my favourite GD dittys.
Last thursday, I attended a local show of the final tour of a band that is very dear to me (along with The Icarus Line, are one of only three LA bands I truly like, the triumvirate completed by HEALTH).
Seven years had past since I saw Giant Drag, our previous dalliance saw them then darlings of noisy pop. This time, it was a different affair. Years in the hinterland, ignored by all but a die hard collective of super fans had obviously affected our heroine.
The mood was buoyant though, Annie in good spirits having achieved a state of “vortex” in Dr Kiko’s van (not a euphemism).
Songs old, songs new, for waking up is hard to do.
I could rattle off the high points of a great show. But this is not what I want.
All I will say, from one unbelievable psycho boy to his transatlantic counterpart is THANKYOU.
We’ll make noise together in the LA springtime, tune up Chorlie x