She was beautiful. At the very least she was pretty. She floated across the dancefloor like a chunk of dry ice. An air hockey puck smacked around between plastic paddles. I was staring, sucking the alcohol out of an ice cube from my sixth Whiplash (a house specialty mixing one part vodka to two parts Mango Madness Snapple). The drinks had filed away my fear of rejection, and I sauntered up to her.

"Hi how are you blah blah blah my name is Brent blah blah blah." She never stopped swirling. She swirled and swished her hair around. Her mouth opened. I sucked and sucked harder until the cube dissolved. She spoke.

She emitted Minnie Mouse from Mississippi. Or was her squeal more along the lines of Fran Dresher after a decade of Marlboros and a hit of helium? "Hoy-uh! Mah nayme is Dahnesty."

"Um, hi, Dynasty. My name is Brent." Again, I'd forgotten to take off my silk Pitchfork windbreaker and Dynasty immediately recognized me. She invited me back to her place. The six Whiplashes and her batting eyelashes beguiled my better judgment. The lower parts of my id decided that we just wouldn't talk that much.

At her place, she dimmed the lights and put on some music. She claimed it was her favorite band, Violent Green, and confessed that the music turned her into a minx. I made some stupid joke about how "Violent Green is made out of people!" but she didn't get it. She rubbed my chest. The first echoed chord wafted from the speakers.

"This ain't too bad," I said.

"You just wait until I get warmed up."

"No, I meant the music."

Violent Green mixed minimalist trip-hop and ethereal indie rock with a gothic aftertaste. Then the singer croaked in. Her pipes were an intersection of Goat Boy, a dying whooping crane, pubescent boys singing in the shower, and Peter Murphy. Or was her squeal more like an offspring of Courtney Love and Saved By The Bell's Screech? Call her Gillette Biafra. Never before had a voice so completely ruined music for me. I wasn't even in the mood to make out. But I had to focus.

By the second track, the music was boring me as well. Subtle string loops and repetitious drum lines farted forth. Lo-fi aesthetics milked each sound of any impact. Muted soundscapes failed to grab my attention. The songs varied as little as a pack of teens in an Old Navy.

What's laid down by Violent Green is a skeleton of trip-hop. However, where other bands may put some meat and smooth skin on those bones, Violent Green's skeleton is the rotting remain of better bodies that have come before. The songs were like sketches and demos that were left undeveloped in Portishead's attic. Their attemped fusion of 4AD and Bristol, England fell flat. So did my libido. Whatever attraction I had for Dynasty seemed as far away as the quasi-industrial machinery chimes under Violent Green's gothic gas. Boring music and creaky voices sober me up like a cold shower and jail.

"Listen Dynasty, this ain't happening. I'm out."

"Aw. Buh pleeease, Bryant!" Just then a toddler dripping snot stumbled in the room. "Maw? Is that ya'll?"

I grabbed my windbreaker and jetted.

-Brent DiCrescenzo