Whoever is responsible for the sound at La Vitrola, especially on the night of Friday April 10th, when Cheap Wig, Crosss, Les Temps Liquids, Gashrat and Tyvek played, needs to be blacklisted or sent back to school.

Fortunately, for fans dedicated enough to wade through the muck of poorly done noise, they were rewarded with the presence of determined, creative, hard-working musicians who soldiered on anyway and still put on a show worth writing about.

It was my first Crosss show, and I’ve been a geek for them ever since someone chucked on their vinyl and paraded one of their T-shirts through the living room. Andy March, I want one of those shirts man.

I haven’t felt the same way about a band since the summer I discovered Spacemen 3 and would turn off all the lights at night, smoke a fat joint and close my eyes to Taking Drugs to Make Music to Take Drugs To.

Enter Crosss and their album Obsidian Spectre.

Here’s what you should know about me and the way I review shows: First of all, I’m a musician obsessed. Obsessed with playing and obsessed with listening. Through this cross-pollination, writing and alcohol find themselves in this mixture often. You’re not gonna get some sterile, hip write up here that’s flowery with compliments. If you want some adjective-rich blowjob, you can take those desires to Pitchfork.

Moving on.

Despite the sound job that made me feel like I was in a basement show in a suburb of Toronto, I have extreme respect for musicians who still kill the stage after a soundperson tries, intentionally or through lack of know-how, to butcher their show. Vitrola, get it together.

Now, I’m done writing about it. What I really want to write about is the performance of Cheap Wig and Crosss. I cannot write about the rest of the night, because I got drunk and went to a German party where men in costumes kept trying to yank me into recording booths. Check out Noisey. I’m sure they wrote something cute about the other bands.

Cheap Wig seem to be the pet of the Montreal music scene right now. I love a visceral performance, and this band has a sexpot in spandex screaming in everyone’s face, as well as a broken-collarbone type of drumming (think of being smashed all over your body by something blunt).

And how do I know Crosss was really that great? I have proof: some poor bastard actually shit on the floor outside of the women’s bathroom. When music makes you shit yourself, you know it’s powerful.

(Hey, I’m a journalist. My job is to observe and report. Everything.)