I spent all day Sunday tuning a friend's drums at some world-class recording studio in Soho. As the engineer stood watch over every turn of the drum key, my fiddling seemed to produce only a wide variety of mediocre sounds and intrusive overtones. If the band was paying the normal rate for this joint, I would have cost them several hundred dollars, but when the owner's away...interning mice play.

Eventually, I found a certain tension that allowed the eight-year-old heads to sit back in the mix, relatively unnoticed, and thus commenced the recording process. Confident that my work was finished, I moseyed over to Williamsburg for a casual beer at the local punk rock spot, accompanied by a quick game of billiards.

Brady beat me, finally.

Eight ball, wrong pocket.

We arrived at North Six a bit early, but we were eventually let in after a few logistical mishaps. When the Duchess O' the Velvet Rope finally gave the nod, we bum-rushed the bleachers and snapped up two choice spots, eye-level with the stage.

The obvious advantage of sitting in the bleachers is that it affords one an extended potential for sloth, and I am certainly a fan of slothing. The less obvious advantage is that you are able to observe all the untouchable beauties from an elevated and unobtrusive vantage point. The typical prolonged leer is verboten when on a level playing field, but no one ever looks at the people on the bleachers unless they're coveting your ability to laze.

It's uncanny. No matter where I end up, I always end up staring at cute girls. Ladies, isn't it about time you started staring back?

The compliment of bands was diverse in both talent and style, but a free concert is not something that the appreciative person criticizes. Today, I'm feeling appreciative, and thus I'll neglect to mention my extreme distaste for the opening act, and my less acerbic appraisal of that other band.

I was afforded a lovely view of some lovely lasses, and I was able to sit down for the entire show, so I've got little to complain about...although my serious lack of ass-fat eventually caused me some discomfort.

Despite being second on the bill, the Mink Lungs almost stole the show away. Good music, magnetic personalities, and thorough effort formed a tide of charm that won me over almost instantly.

I don't think there is anything more entertaining then watching Jack Black's clone dance about in expressive fits while wearing an assortment of facial contortions. I'm still trying to figure out how he managed to strangle that guitar with his meaty hands and still produce such skillful artistry.

It's been a long time since I've seen a band put forth such a concerted effort to give a great show, and I was duly impressed.

I was also impressed when the girl I had my eye on for most of the night started making out with another chick. And yes, that certainly is hot, but it probably means that I don't have a spot on her roster. So it goes.

The show was closed by the Moldy Peaches, who are certainly worth every bit of the hype that surrounds them. I wonder if it was an uncharacteristically electric performance by them, or if every show they give is that intensely fantastic.

Open up your "to do" lists kiddies and make a note to catch the Mink Lungs and the Moldy Peaches when they come to a town near you.

They each get a gold star, but they have to split one "very good" apple between them.