Bona Roba @ Southpaw April 2005 Written by Jeremy Schreiner Photographer by Evan Sung Attended by Jeffrey Gangemi

Dear Jeff—Come on, for Christsakes! Who has the gaul to start their show at 1 AM? I’ve already humiliated myself four times by then. I’ve already peed myself; I’ve lit the wrong end of a cigarette; I’ve made passes at girls way out of my league. The last thing I need is to be grinding with some trashy girl at the end of a rock set that set my loins a-tingling! (Evan didn’t get pictures of that, did he?) And on top of that, who has the gaul to perform shirtless in April? Who does this guy think he is anyway? Mick Jagger? He sure sounds like Mick Jagger. He sure looks like Mick Jagger. He sure acts like Mick Jagger. Am I jealous? Goddamn right I’m jealous! He had girls dancing on stage. People were crowdsurfing in Southpaw. People were hanging from the rafters, screaming for more Rock, for God’s sake! More Rock? Don’t people know Rock died when they saw the drummer for The White Stripes? And here’s this arrogant schmuck prancing around the stage, shirtless, like his life depended on it. I mean, come on!

First of all, Jer, don’t flatter yourself. That was no trashy girl dancing with you; that was a cross-dressing weirdo. And the only thing Evan got pictures of was me, pounding my fist in the air like I was at a Stones show. Yeah, Bona Roba, eh? I thought Rock was dead when I heard Kid A. Now we’ve got this shaggy-haired fellow bringing it back again. This is the way I always dreamed a rock show would be like. A girl even threw her panties onstage. One day, these guys are going to play at Radio City and there’s going to be a riot. And you’re going to look up to see who’s the guy who just stomped your teeth in and you’re going to see me—laughing at you and your bloody gums.

Jelly Crowd

Whoa there, killer! Take it easy. I think you forgot to take your pills. Anyway, did I tell you that I saw Bona Roba a week later at the Pussycat Lounge? Don’t know the Pussycat Lounge?—New York’s hottest strip club. Well, here I am, watching some shirtless (again) rock star strut around stage. Their sound is pure rock to its most grandiose conclusion. One floor below, women are shaking their booties for my satisfaction, yet I stand transfixed on some skinny young man’s body. Hating it. Loving it. Because the more I hate the lead singer, the more I love this band. The music does things to my soul. I would love to compare them to The Darkness, but The Darkness pales in comparison to the passion and intensity of Bona Roba. Suddenly I want to break stuff; I want an eight-ball called left corner nostril; I want to use a dolphin’s nose as a sex tool; I want champagne to feel like shooting stars landing on naked flesh; I want Rock-n-Roll and if Bona Roba can satiate my desire, so be it. I love these guys!

Word up, Jer. You said it! I guess I’ll be seeing you at the next Bona Roba show. When you turn around to see who’s the guy breaking your spine, guess who you’ll see.