By Nikki Darling

I like to date within my age bracket and retain a certain level of intellectual integrity, although older men never seem overly concerned about impressing younger women with their world weary intelligence. Rather, the schmary few who have managed to get me to the dinner-date table or on the dance floor seem oddly consumed with appearing childlike and helpless.

Last night at the Echo, however, lead singer for the Homosexuals, Bruno, seemed intent on rectifying the curse of the sad older man, slithering around with such animal ferocity it made all hearts aflutter. The man was panther-like sex, pogoing, threatening to stage dive, beating his chest, crucifying himself with drumsticks, freakin' meditating 'om' style with thumb and index fingers pinched together in focused thought while the band played apocalypse-like behind him and even sticking the mic down his pants where it may or may not have gone up his ass. It was thrilling and caused all not thrashing around like dying fish on sun-baked beach's to stop stupid in their tracks. Fully comfortable in the role of the teacher/aggressor, he hissed such gems as 'Oh, are the Homosexuals Art Punk? DIY? Post Modern? Who gives a fuck, fuck labels!' And how.

Silver Apples; Credit: Nikki Darling

Silver Apples; Credit: Nikki Darling

Far from being outdone, opener Silver Apples got the whole thing started with such a dedicated commitment to outdoing any young electronic schmuck it's amazing any electronic musician/band has ever dared make music since the groundbreaking duo first recorded their self titled debut in 1968. Simeon stood alone smiling, noodling and furrowing his brown in a manner of religious intent. He played a combination of old and new songs, and one song he introduced as “a song I wrote for children.” Children who do acid and play with knives that is.

The whole show was in exercise in being humbled, and the greatest example of 'if it ain't broke don't fix it' that I've seen in quite a long time. Simply put, old white men sometimes do do it right.

LA Weekly