Discovering the Kill Miss Pretty booth at last weekend's Exxxotica Expo was very weird. It was like wandering half-drunk into Goldrush and getting a mid-afternoon lapdance from a feature dancer who turns out to be your cousin. But once the initial confusion wore off, there were questions: What exactly were these Boynton Beach glam punks selling here? Their music? Their asses? Who paid the several thousand bucks for this booth? And why?

Well, according to frontwoman Alicia Olink, the band was there peddling their catalogue to porn producers and that's all. "If people want to fuck to our music, we're all for it," she said. As for the other questions, Olink and the rest of KMP stayed silent, smirked, and skidded into song. Some things must remain secret.

Sweatstock's sweatiest moment came at the end. By the time noise-punk duo No Age finally stumbled onstage around 9 p.m., the crowd was bigger, drunker, and more chaotic than it had been all day. Fans of every kind packed a pit bounded by NE 2nd Ave., Sweat Records' north-facing façade, and cop cars. Party boys poured beer on each other for heat relief. Locals joined the party, watching the whole thing from the low-slung seats of BMX bikes. And hipster dads hoisted their offspring onto t-shirted shoulders.

Then, No Age tore into its very first squalls of distorted riffage and the crowd replied with happy violence. It all became a writhing, rumbling mess: Bodies crumbling under bodies, cameras being crushed, kids stage-diving onto the heads of newfound friends. The dads drifted into safer corners while everyone else went berserk. And miraculously, Sweatstock never veered off into negative vibes. People seemed to actually like getting repeatedly pushed and punched.

It was an insanely heavy way to start a nice night of music and movies: Bodies tossed across train tracks, horsemen of the apocalypse streaking through snowy nowheres, and local metalheads Slashpine shredding slow and deep into doom-y sonic territory.

A couple days before the show, I asked Roofless Rex boss and Cinema Sounds mastermind Matt Preira about Slashpine. He tried to describe the band for me, saying: "They're an up-and-coming experimental black metal group that tickles the punks pink." But, um, after seeing Slashpine tear their silent clip to shreds, suck the crowd's collective soul, then dissolve into shadows ... I'm 87 percent sure Matt actually meant "They're an up-and-coming force of colossal destruction that scares the world retarded."

Honestly, I was extremely surprised people weren't shitting their popcorn.

Last Thursday, Destroyio Records invaded Churchill's again. And every species of Miami punk was there: Hialeah soccer hooligans, dreaded lezzies, Calle Ocho crusties, Subhumans squat rats, weekend anarchists, Misfits aerobics instructors, hardcore dudes with neck tattoos, etc. It was a mixed pit.



Everyone sipped some kind of clear alcohol from plastic water bottles hooked through belt loops or hidden in backpacks. A few chubby drunks (mostly female) would start a skank circle, throwing elbows into stationary targets. Things would flare up, then recede again. And crowd aggression continued to move in waves until, finally, Guerrilleros de Nadie stormed the stage and signaled the time to Destroyio some shit.

Jacob Katel

Shot from October, 2009, when we caught Locos at the WDNA studio for Sound Theory Live.

​Locos Por Juana are fuckin' awesome, and we've got the proof. Welcome to our first edition of Crossfade Live, where we bring you our original high definition concert recordings from bands and venues all over South Florida.

Today we bring you a full, live album we recorded Friday night at Jazid. If you've never seen or heard Locos Por Juana, they play a Miami-Latin blend of reggae, hip hop, rumba, cumbia, get down, soul force, radical shit.

Here's the link to the 13-track album we made from their show, after the jump.
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As the New Times reported last week, Monotonix's trip to South Florida ended when only twelve minutes into its set, the band's singer Ami Shalev stopped to say: "After more than 700 shows, I think I finally broke my leg." Seemed like a joke at the time, but it turned out to be true. The acrobatic antics were already over. And that Monotonix t-shirt that read "Where were you when it happened?" took on a new, sad meaning for fans who drove an hour to see some Krav Maga-level rock 'n' roll.

The consolation prize, though, was Surfer Blood's certifiably safe and mostly stationary opening set. There was no cartwheeling, crabwalking, or crowdsurfing. But the music itself stayed animated enough as the West Palm Beachers rambled through faves like "Floating Vibes" and "Swim" off debut disc Astro Coast. The video document above shows a rough and raw live rendition of "Take It Easy" that you should really savor since the Blood is touring and might not make it home till summer.

ENOUGH! is Fabio Destroyio, Homer, and Mikey Steele.

​Fuck y'all know about ENOUGH!? Probably not enough.

Well, there's not enough Miami punk rock. Not enough people going to shows. Not enough bands, not enough venues, not enough glass to break, levels on the volume knob, beer to drink, fences to jump, bikes to ride, skateboards to thrash, mosh pits to slam. There's not enough of a lot of shit, but there is ENOUGH! and they do represent gotdammit, and they are playing shows, lots of em', thanks to Destroyio Records.
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Like vampires, hipsters are allergic to the sun. Sometimes even moonbeams. So, last Saturday, it only made sense that the Electric Pickle's upstairs romper room was darker than a fucking coffin for Lil Daggers' set. The only light in the room was the ambient glow of BlackBerrys mid-text and a faint red haze floating above the stage. Nothing powerful enough to singe hipster skin.

Unfortunately, what's good for the milky white epidermis of cool kids isn't good for the art of video. So the clip above focuses on the only members of the band visible in all that lightlessness -- guitarist Gringo de Oro and drummer Eagle Eye. Here they are thirty minutes past midnight, flailing through a rave-up rendition of "King Corpse." Not seen: Jacob strangling his bass in the shadows, Pablo Jr hunched over the keys like a werewolf, and singer Vampiro creeping around in a cloak and screaming wildly enough to wake the undead.