The Go at the Record Bar

The Go

Better Than: Paying to see the Hives open for Maroon 5; Renee Zellweger; getting peed on.

Review by Ashley Brown.

“Some guy told us we toe the line of ‘fuck it’” said Go frontman Bobby Harlow from the stage last night at the Record Bar. “We thought it was one of the best compliments we ever received.”

Seriously? I guess I can’t account for context and tone but, as I asked my friend Kathleen via the sealed envelope we’d been scrawling notes upon (if you never open it, it’s like the overdue bill doesn’t exist!), doesn’t that sorta mean that you’ve, well, given up? I’d place “fuck it” in the school of “fuck off,” “fuck up,” and all other terms that convey sheer, sputtering, fuck-all resignation. Of course, it could also mean ‘fuck the It,” as in, fuck the dictates of mass consumption that would have the Go temper their sound, cut their hair and make a really crappy, petroleum-glossy, OC-ready album (does that show still exist?) like the Makers or something.

The Go, by Fabrizio Constantini