Boner Social Scene

My Left Tit are nine bored, horny friends in Queens who decided to start a band. What other rea­sons do you need, really? At the moment, they’re less an actual “band” than a wad of inside jokes and fake back­sto­ries. But they’re casu­ally tal­ented and glee­fully vulgar, and beneath their smutty odes to dicks and queefs you can feel real cre­ative impulses at work.

I briefly hung out with these kids a few times last year, before they got to writing songs. As near as I can tell, they’re in that post-college phase of forming funny, intense, doomed little social cir­cles: a mix of drama club nerdi­ness, awk­ward sexual ten­sion, and lots of stoned bull­shit­ting. A kind of outer-boroughs Whit Stillman film where every­body ends up in debt and sleeping with each other.

But refresh­ingly it’s the girls who’ve taken the lead in trans­lating this life into loopy musical the­atre, writing and singing most of the mate­rial. The aes­thetic is remark­ably uni­fied and decid­edly vaginal, from the stage names–Queef Latina, Pussy­face, and Cunt Muffin–to songs like “It Feels Ok, I guess” and “I’m Sorry I Farted on Your Dick Last Night.” Is it My Left Tit cause they lopped the right one off, Amazon War­rior style?

My favorite song is the rel­a­tively femme “I Can’t Stop Fucking My Ex-Boyfriend.” I’m prob­ably biased because it’s sung by my cousin, who has given her­self the stage name–god help me–Titty Titty Bang Bang. Here at girl­pants we’ve paid tribute to kin before, to the way they make music a part of our lives, some­thing more than sterile lists of mp3s to be curated or ignored. Admit­tedly, that sounds a little ide­al­ized when your family member is singing about hot beef injec­tions and com­pul­sively poor sexual deci­sions, but, you know, still. The song is a love letter to All-American indie rock, a sar­donic Liz Phair con­fes­sional backed by the Pixies. But the real sur­prise is the voice: how could such a rich, bluesy thing come from my dork cousin? Christ, she kind of sounds like Scout Niblet.

It’s hard to tell how My Left Tit will develop, but you can keep abreast of the sit­u­a­tion here. They may end up a half-embarrassing lark, but this fact makes them at least as inter­esting as bands that pop out of the womb fully formed and ready to blog-hump. For now they feel organic, grounded in a real, albeit dorky Life­world, more board game than bar crawl. Some­times you just want to stay in with friends. And make dick jokes.