People in Manhattan once would never think of going to Brooklyn. Except to die. The convenience of the L.I.E. & Interstate 278 intersecting with cemeteries. Just throw the flowers from the car.

Now it's the other way around. The 'city that never sleeps' closes up on weekdays well before the last call at 4AM, except for a dwindling number of after-hour spots. So the party rock crew kicks it in B'klyn where on any given night the likes of Keith Rowe plays on.

Over a few decades Rowe abandoned music per se for the plastic arts. He augments his slide guitar -- which lays flat on a table -- with screwdrivers, electric drills & drill-bits, brushes, clothes pins, steel wool pads, credit cards & sine waves.
Very advanced lo-tech
generating soundscapes & mood attenuators
piercing quiet
almost hurts but for the hush that surrounds the sharpest note
industrial med(itation)s for the urban yogi immune to any aural scrapes
intoxicated on apps & cool
for girls who watch girls & guys who, sensing the time, watch girls watch girls drink micro-brews like no guy's business,
massaging their ear drums & lobes in the key of de-tuned – basically Juliana Barwick without the beatific tones -- hungover from a major minor bend...
oh, the vibrato the vibrator from the head passing thru the bone marrows down to the toes as 10 separate electrical circuits re-connecting every single one of them,
turning emo shoegazers loaded up on angst into vibram pedicabs operated by coolies racing back to their brownstone shares -- imaginary Buffaloes, Clevelands, Detroits – all the heartland places that hipstercratic Brooklyn thinks of itself

Now that the Manhattan cocktail mixed with chocolate makes for a far off-off-Broadway way outer Borough