You heard it here first, kids… Resonator, in various incarnations, spent the weekend with Patrick Wolf– a glorious, musically perfect, truly unique weekend– and we’re going to have a ton of photos, an interview, and reviews for you really really soon. But before we clean up all of our pictures and get all of our videos into QuickTime, we wanted to be the first to tell you about the MisShapes show…

Basically, you won’t be seeing Zach, the drummer, the next time you see Patrick and Co. While a very inebriated and salacious (but still absolutely spot-on) Patrick took to the audience and was lost in a tight knit crowd of sweaty, euphoric hipster boys during “Bloodbeat”, Zach sort of forgot to play the drums… or how to stay conscious. Upon discovering that his drummer didn’t share the same iron clad ability to perform no matter what his blood alcohol content, Patrick had to slap him awake. Hard. It took quite a few hits before Zach came around, and finally, when Patrick was convinced he couldn’t play, he was sent off stage (though not before having been slapped by our dear violin player whose name escapes me at the moment and having Patrick bash him in the head with the high hat, stand and all).

Let me just say for those who only saw the MisShapes show– Patrick was the MODEL of sobriety at Studio B, as was every other member of the band. Going on at 1:30, jetlagged, and having obviously been plied with a LOT of alcohol (and, if Patrick’s asides toward his drummer were more than disparaging fury, other things as well) from the MisShapes crew certainly changed the atmosphere of Patrick’s performance but it in no way altered the quality of the performance he put on.

Friday night was the sort of evening where you’d imagine spending the next day waking up in the early afternoon, throwing on a sundress, a smear of iridescent glitter, and heading to the park with a copy of Leaves of Grass to read aloud in between making out on a blanket with someone you’ve just recently realized you love. Saturday, on the other hand, was the sort of event so tinged with danger, sweat, and seediness that you’d more likely wake up at 4 pm the next day, still wearing strategically ripped fishnets, swishing your mouth out with the last shot of Stoli, and stumbling to the bathroom mirror to sort out which purple blooms on your thighs and hipbones are bitemarks and which are makeup someone else was wearing the night before.

Either way, you’ve got the makings of waking up in one hell of a Magic Position.

(STAY TUNED, KIDS! We’ve got a LOT of Wolfy pics, exclusive videos, and reviews of two of the worst opening acts EVER!)