WATCH: Cory J. Popp's Video Recap Of RIDE DNC

What began as a lark for organizers Maria Lily and Alexandria Schneider a few months back blossomed into a full-blown massive event last night, as the Ride DNC bike ride traversed the length of Broad Street, from Cheltenham down to South Philly. Hundreds of riders — to the tune of 750-1000, according to Schneider — showed up, and in a week that has been grasping for some kind of magic, well, this counts a lot. See you all next on Sept. 24 for #OpenStreetsPHL?

Video Premiere: Watch Salford Crime Wave Carry Forth The Sleaze With Various Late Night Philly Tribes

If the current question posed by the Philly indie scene is, "YES, we see that you all have beards and are very serious indeed, but where, pray tell, are the nightclubbing freaks of yore?," the answer is clearly Salford Crime Wave. Once described on this very website as "greasy guido music," let us go further, and evolve that remark in tandem with the band's own growth, as displayed with the new clip above: Salford Crime Wave make greasy guido music for when it is a rainy night in mid-1980s Philadelphia and you are waiting at the Black Banana for someone you met in the Au Courant personals. They're not coming, but you don't care; there's always the likelihood that you'll get beat up on your way home, but you don't care; for you have a Sisters of Mercy cassette in your Walkman, and two packs of cigarettes. This is the life you wanted.

Phew! Sorry, I really went somewhere for a moment. But it's that kind of music. "Haoui," of course, is in homage to legendary nightclub figure Haoui Montaug, and in sumptuous black and white depicts a wide array of present-day Philly late night cabaret performers. The band themselves, the song and the video all represent a kind of throughline of Philly nightlife that has never really gone away — it's just found different hidden corners. On principle. 

Conspiracy Theory: Father John Misty XPNfest Meltdown Caused By... Ryan Adams?

It appears that the lasting memory of last weekend’s WXPN Xponential Fest will be this: Father John Misty’s very performative non-performance, which felt like nothing so much as a modern of update of Richie Tenenbaum’s meltdown on the tennis court. Although, even though that was a scene in a movie and Misty’s thing happened in the actual world, you could argue that the Baumer was more genuine.

Since this horseshit went down, well, wait. Before we get to the conspiracy theory, let us address the content of Misty’s remarks. It wasn’t that he was wrong about anger being a poor substitute for thoughtfulness even to the point of grave sadness (holy shit we just said it better in half of a  sentence than he did in 20 minutes), it was just that something was off about this. Yes, performers aren’t monkeys, they can say what they want, and they absolutely should, but we find, we have always found, Father John Misty to be deeply disingenuous. I mean, that’s his whole deal, right? 

Anway. Let’s walk through a scenario. Let’s say you’re Father John Misty (sorry). Let’s say you’ve been in a weird war with Ryan Adams over godfuckingknowswhat for months now (again, sorry). Let’s say you get booked at this XPN thing, it’s just a solo gig for you, and you arrive to realize, fuckin’ hell, Ryan Adams is headlining that same fest, the same night, in the much bigger venue! Again, you are Father John Misty (Jesus, I am so, so sorry), and this does not sit well with you at all. So what do you do?

You throw a fuckin’ tantrum, Father John Misty, that’s what the fuck you do! You pull your release to have your performance livestreamed (which he did in fact do, whereas all other participating artists in the fest allowed for streaming), you freak the fuck out, and then you take that freakout all the way on stage, where you get out of performing this fest by blathering on for however long about everything BUT the thing that is foremost in your mind: RYAN FUCKING ADAMS. 

Did this happen? Well, dude, we just don’t know. But it would explain a lot if it did. What would remain a mystery, what will go on, hopefully, to blessedly remain a mystery, is why anyone in this big, beautiful, crazy world would give one dried white turd about any of this. In fact, I have named that dried white turd.

Its name is Father John Misty.

As Convention Rolls On, Philadelphians Fight Back Against The Election's True Enemy: National Media

One might have well expected it: That the same hack national media that’s been repeating the “batteries at Santa Claus” urban legend for decades would find plenty to whine about when they arrived in Philadelphia, only to find… Philadelphia. Philadelphia, we say, where the unpleasantness of sporting events, Guns N’ Roses concerts and people from the suburbs are held at distant remove from the general populace! Philadelphia, where the subway is viewed as a utility and not a pleasantry! Philadelphia, where hell yes it’s hot in the summertime. 

But the media hasn’t quite seen it this way. And so, right now, as we speak, we’re showing them something else.

We are showing them, ladies and gentlemen, the motherfucking realness.

And on and on, like a cry to the heavens. Shine on, Philadelphia. For we are a people who are just, and right, and good.