Alec Ounsworth at Kilby Court

For pretty much as long as I can remember I’ve had a deeply rooted opposition to and disgust for mustaches. I guess it’s an unfair generalization, but from a young age I observed that the only people who had ‘staches were cops, weasel-faced Nazis, and guys who used one hand to turn up their Hank Jr. tape while using the other to polish the fender of their four wheeler after a holiday weekend at the sand dunes. A few years ago a new breed of mustache-wearer became far more prominent in the mostly still stagnant facial hair scene: the sarcastic hipster. This ugly bastard was worse than anything. He had this instinctive ability to wrap his haired lips around Rock and Roll and suck all the danger and soul right out of it.  As more and more of these vile parasites started popping up in public places my anger and outspoken hatred grew until I was so consumed with rage that I could hardly go to a show or a party without picking a fight or stomping out in childish, satanic fury. I was worried about myself. That level of loathing certainly isn’t healthy, and I was wasting away into darkness, consumed by my own fear and inability to interact with anyone who had any sort of mustache affiliation whatsoever. 

Being the first-rate journalist that I am, I did the only thing I could do: inhale deeply, face my inner demons, and grow my own mustache. That’s right. You heard me. I was on assignment for SLUG to cover the Alec Ounsworth show at Kilby Court. You know, that cat from Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. He put out a solo album, Mo Beauty, last October, and has been touring to promote it. I figured that there wasn’t a better method of creeping into his strange indie/art world than to finally go undercover and try to understand what I’d loathed for so many years. Also, for the sake of journalistic accuracy and my own integrity, I’d better point out that I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t have an ulterior motive in growing the awful thing. You see, there’s this girl that I’ve sort of been seeing lately, and she’s more than a little into facial hair. I wanted desperately to impress her (What I mean to say, of course, is that I wanted desperately to get some), and ol’ Alec happened to come to town on a night she didn’t have to work. One way ticket to Mustacheville.

So there I am, right? Walking down the crumbling road that leads back to Kilby, shining green in the night like some sort of cheap Emerald City. I’ve got my right arm hanging loosely around my lady’s shoulder, and my left hand keeps creeping up to my face to curiously stroke the hundred or so hairs that make me a man. I haven’t quite gotten used to it yet, but I’m starting to because I’ve already gotten more kisses in one night than I got in all of 2009. We walk in, and local openers Mathematics Et Cetera have just started their set. Now, I’ve seen Mathematics a couple times a few years ago, and even though they’re probably the nicest people in the entire world I’ve talked more trash about that band than any man alive. But since I’ve last seen them they’ve written new songs, broken up, and reformed, plus I’m trying to open my mind and squash my beef, remember? Anyway, I listen hard, and I watch hard, soaking it all in. Now I’m not sure if it’s the gnarly roots of my mustache taking hold on my brain or what, but I actually start digging them like crazy. Maht Paulos acts like some sort of primal beast doing his slack-jawed, hollow-eyed, drumming thing, and Joe Castor is howling and spitting out his surreal lyrics like a man possessed. God knows what he’s moaning about—something about how John Stockton and Karl Malone are the greatest treasure, whatever that means. They look miserable on stage, unhappy and tense, but the music is sincere, loud and catchy. Did Joe Castor used to have a mustache? I don’t know, but I wouldn’t be surprised, and that’s probably why I never gave the band a chance. Karl Malone had a mustache, and look how he turned out.

Pretty soon they finish up and the guys from Ounsworth’s band start carrying amps and instruments onto the little corner stage. I turn to my notebook to try to get some thoughts together, but I look up as my date gasps.            

Page:  [1]  2  Next >>

Comments on this article

Posted on February 26, 2010 by Alex

"This ugly bastard was worse than anything." You rule, man.

Add a comment

Please keep your comments on the subject of the article.
We will delete your comment if it is racist, misogynistic, sexist, bigoted or just plain lame.
No HTML allowed!