The Impossible Girl

The Impossible Girl herself, Kim Boekbinder, struck again at one of the most unique lofts in Brooklyn. Known as the House of Collection, the space is filled to the rafters with two decades worth of dusty acquisitions—vintage typewriters, cameras, clocks, cash registers, fossils, hats, nets, farm equipment, stuffed animals, and various other artifacts of yore. Nothing less than a museum of Americana.

As if to set the tone of the evening, I walked in on a lively circle discussion of lesbianism in Archie comics. Three-fourths of a whiskey sour later, the Girl emerged impossibly from a hidden alcove, a blur of aladdin sane peacock plumage and glitter. She mounted a corner platform framed by ferns and fronds and began to craft swirling soundscapes from guitar-powered strands of spun silk, rattling chains, birdcalls, and squawking rubber lizards, even at one point incorporating the roar of the J train passing outside the window. These shimmering loops she harnessed into songs about gypsies, nuclear physics, avocados, and fucking. She even boldly improvised two new songs on the spot, one a cautionary tale about falling in love with someone from distant Australia, the other an ode to cephalopods. (The word "cephalopod" has always sounded to me like a flavor of exotic tea.) For an encore she returned wielding a banjolele (or "ukelanjo," if you're left-handed) for some heartfelt warbles sans gadgetry. I was foolish enough not to bring along my camera and had to make due with the one in my cellphone, hence the unfortunate grainy quality of the accompanying photos. Still, better than nothing.

On the way home I passed a didgeridoo busker on a subway platform, which seemed so uncannily appropriate in tone that I wondered how his presence had been arranged as a fanciful nightcap just for my benefit. A parting reminder never to underestimate the powers of the Impossible Girl.