We huffed the skies into our mouths/We saw the ocean and drank it down/Cause we were giants, or maybe birds/We slept with lions, tucked into their fur. -- Les Savy Fav

It’s 2:30 a.m., New Year’s Day 2008. Tim Harrington--lead singer of recently reunited Brooklyn indie rock powerhouse Les Savy Fav--is trying out to be a Suicide Girl. He lifts up his shirt to reveal his ample bosom and shoots the camera a coquettish look.

“That’s one set, I’m gonna do another set later.”

I’m trying to keep it together. My questions -- nervously typed up a few hours, several plastic cups of champagne, cans of Sparks, and swigs of box wine earlier -- lie crumpled on the greenroom table. My only saving grace is a fat blue line of Adderall I stumbled upon at a friend of a friend’s house party, ten ‘til midnight, when I went to pee and found myself surrounded by air-chewing frat boys snapping, “Do you want some or not?” It gave me just enough presence of mind to run and grab bassist Syd Butler when I saw him outside the venue and explain that the Bowery Ballroom’s security goon was guarding the door with the illogical single-mindedness of Cerberus. But now this focus feels out of place in a room full of rockers jolly from drink. I sip slowly from a bottle of Stoli and start things off with a fairly tame question:

“What was it like coming back after the hiatus? Was there ever any question that you would?”

“Not really,” Tim answers while taking off his pants, “I like to think of it like we broke up with you guys, the world. It was getting a little codependent, and we decided we needed a little breather, a time out… just wanted to be friends.”

His answer parallels, perhaps a little too well, the breakup-referencing title of the band’s new album, Let’s Stay Friends. He stretches out the metaphor, pants in hand:

“You know, you kinda can’t talk to each other for a little while when that first happens, otherwise it’s weird. It’s like, we want all the emotional closeness without any of the physical closeness, so we had a clean break and now we’re—” He stops, looks at the camera, then puts his pants back on, announcing, “This is my second set.”

I ask what it’s like to get back in the studio after such a long break. Tim starts to answer, but producer Chris Zane interrupts.

“It was miserable mate, let’s not even lie about it,” he says, slurring a bit. “If it wasn’t for me, the whole thing would’ve been a complete disaster. They wanted to cut ‘What Would Wolves Do’, and I put it back on the album. They’re foolish band members.”

“Who wanted to cut that song?” I ask, “It’s one of my favorites.”

“Everyone but me and Syd,” says Chris, shaking his head, “I’m just gonna say it right now, me and Syd were genius, everyone else, foolish. Rubbish, rubbish, everyone else, rubbish. Chris brilliant, everyone else, rubbish.”

I ask a follow-up question, directed at everyone, about the songwriting process, but Chris is on a roll. He's not even in the band, but I can tell he wishes he were from the way he hogs the spotlight.

“It was terrible! It was absolutely… horrendous process. Don’t let them fool you, fuck the press, the process was completely--” he pauses, perhaps searching for a synonym for rubbish--“rubbish.”

“Chris is extremely difficult to manage,” Tim sighs, then grabs my laptop and does this:



I start ignoring Chris Zane despite being seated right next to him.

“What do you guys do for fun here in New York?” I ask Tim.

“We like to eat food,” he says, “good food!” and I believe him. In a world of slouching, heroin-chic front men reveling in the melodrama of shirtlessness, Tim is a refreshing anomaly; he doesn’t take himself too seriously, and he eats. He’s also extremely comfortable with his body. He doesn’t see what the big deal is about bodies in general: when asked his opinion on SuicideGirls.com, he says, “People’s bodies, big whoop, everyone’s all freaked out about it. Boobs. Boobs. Boobs. I think it’s natural.”

I think he’s more excited about his own modeling efforts than he lets on; I ask him to tell me some tour stories, and he coyly tells the story of what just happened.

“We were at this concert, and it was like, uh… I did a set. Got five hundred bucks. I showed my butt beaver. I showed my rear beaver.”

He’s not ashamed of this, and removes his top once more to prove it.

“That’s my third set. I have three sets—one set here, one set here, and one set down here…like a pig has three sets.”


© 2008 Calamity

I flash back to the day before, when I told some friends I was going to meet Tim Harrington.

“Don’t get too excited,” one of them said, “I’ve met him and he’s really quite normal.”

That may be the case most of the time, but there’s no reckoning with what the pre-show New Year’s party and a roomful of eyes have released in him. I’m along for the ride now.



note: While helping Tim blow up balloons to create a festive atmosphere earlier, I was struck directly in the eye by one of the little fucks.

Refreshed by my virtual head crushing, I ask the group about their New Year’s resolutions. Tim snaps back to attention; I can tell he’s thought about how he might answer this question.

“In 2008 Les Savy Fav plan to meet or exceed modest expectations.”

Words to live by.

Suddenly, everyone is talking at once. Tim's wrapping himself in silver paper, and their manager Simon is going on a tirade about how “you should never eat seafood on a Sunday.” No one’s paying attention to me but Chris, who complements my tights/shorts combo profusely, touching my leg to better illustrate which garment he’s discussing. Backing away, I tell him they’re my party shorts: I don’t flash anyone if I need to sit down, and the whole operation’s fairly tricky to get off.


© 2008 Calamity

It’s after three when Calamity (who has been manning the camera) and I leave the green room to stand at the edge of the stage, and the second show of the evening begins.

Les Savy Fav are a relentless rock-and-roll fun machine. Tim emerges still wrapped in shiny paper, and despite their 3 a.m. crazies, the band never misses a beat. The songs off Let’s Stay Friends are even better live than on the album. What some take for a reigning in of the band’s boundless energy is really a fuller exploration of their range; they hit eleven a whole lot harder when they’re not screaming up there all the time.

The chorus to “Patty Lee” invites us on a drunken sing-a-long:

Patty Lee, turn the lights on please, there’s something I don’t understand/Patty Lee turn the lights on please, this party’s gotten out of hand!

The raucous garage-rock strains of “The Equestrian” make us freak out like the pink haired six-year-old in the video. We do this until we are hoarse, sweaty, and covered in our drinks.

“Where are you going now?”

The show’s over and Simon wants to know. I’ve no idea. We go back to the green room but everyone’s cleared out and it’s just Calamity and me among untouched hummus and pita, Coronas, Red Stripes, bottles of tequila and scary plastic masks. We help ourselves to some of the refuse.


© 2008 Calamity

How we get home on the subway is anyone’s guess, but I awaken eight hours later to a world of pain and the image that caps off this journey in my mind: a wrinkled American flag inhaling and exhaling sweetly on the couch, my Calamity’s red hair spilling out one end, little feet poking out the other. Instead of puking my soul out, I sigh, turn over and go back to sleep.


© 2008 Calamity

For those who want to see more of this hot mess, the whole video can be viewed here.