Home Body

August 31, 2012

Written by: Jason Ribadeneyra

Home Body

Some bar in Manhattan off E. Houston and Clinton that I can’t remember. 8/30/12

10:30 PM


I entered with my version of skipping, right up to Eric Hnatiw (beetmaker, Home Body) and giving him a good old fashioned “grown man hug”, with the added back slap to boot. Why not? It’d been a while. Knowing him since ’92 when we were both proud Ludlow Boys and Girls Club members and playing in the same cellars and VFW Halls in Northampton MA in 02′ meant one thing to me at least… this was a special occasion. I’ve loved his noise since I first heard his old two piece “Hnatiw” hop at The Flywheel in Easthampton MA so I was fully embracing getting weird to some Home Body, his new(er) thing with singer/lion tamer Haley Morgan.

The first “group” started out with a “yeah, alright” head nod and sway of the trunk but quickly disintegrated into an uncomfortable gulping of spirits… fast and furious. I couldn’t tell if the beat rocked or if the beat dropped. So many pieces missing that at first notice I thought “Must be on purpose, some cruel twisted tribute to Enya.” No, it was worse. They were serious. This was electronic music’s answer to pickled beets. Though I appreciated the “bro” behind the synth paying homage to Mike “The Situation” from Herpes Shore, I felt he should have tilted 15 degrees up and aimed for Pauly D. Normally this sort of sickness would be encouraged, loudly, from my corner of the floor but instead I slumped visibly on my friends shoulder, inhaling my drink(s). Something was missing, a goddamn gaping space where boredom and couture separate, where Bally’s and Gold’s Gym dominated the gym scene of the mid 90s. Times they are a changin’. Maybe, maybe not. Enough of that talk. Bon voyage Snooki. Sic Semper Tyrannis!

So Home Body walks out of the bathroom dressed to the goddamn nines. Eric Hnatiw and Haley Morgan in delicious flat black bodysuits and tri-colored, thread “neck pieces”. Orange, Red, and I think Burnt Sienna. Anyways… both Bodies were beautiful and I couldn’t help but to swell with pride. Take it as you will. I called to the crowd to gather around on these oddly placed stools. “Let’s create a support group kinda vibe!!!” I suggested which, I felt, was fitting. People snickered. They chuckled at me, cracked up at my crippled ass request. My shoulders buckled. I turned to my friend and tried to communicate to her using only my eyes that I had made a fool of myself, that I was shamed. All I got in return was a disapproving glare back. That glare turned out to be the flame that lit the wick. We sat down in a semi circle, sort of silent.

Home Body opens like a roman candle. From what I remember an audience member screamed “Ceaser!” Which was uncalled for, especially in these Lower East Sides. Outbursts like that may be tolerated by the upper echelon of Williamsburg but is rarely indulged in Manhattan. I sensed that Haley understood this insult as she thrust her hips in the offenders general direction and ended up silencing not just him but everyone, including Eric, who noticeably hung his head 20 degrees. I feared the show was over but after a brief intermission of sorts Eric stopped biting his thumb nail and layed down one of his famous “crowd pleasers.” Show back on!

At some points during their “set” it seemed as if they had finally achieved some fucked up sort of levitation, or, more likely, had levitated us. A beautiful couple, dare I say a perfect two piece, sharing they’re love with you. Realize that motherfucker!

To show a little respect I danced. I knocked over a stool or two. I had fun.

Home Body are like if Richard D. James fell in love with Cat Power.



See you on the other side.

Jasen Ribadenera




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