In any case, it certainly was not the 17-year-olds in attendance Thursday night, or the acts — ’70s hair on a high school garage band, "Sesame Street" defamation from a man who hopped around like a heroin addict and the pantyhose crooning of Kevin Barnes, frontman for indie pop superstars Of Montreal.
It wasn't the awful Nine Inch Nails and Bjork remixes, either, played as a prelude and between sets. Someone forgot the Of Montreal demographic, judging by the throng of high schoolers swaying, jumping and rabbit-miming up front, who have no tolerance for techno and industrial noise.
MGMT
Noise of a different sort entranced the high school set to open, with New York band MGMT (The Management). Attempting to discover any information on the band besides the name, such as whether they are or are not too young to be out past curfew, is a fruitless exercise, as their website and MySpace are entirely made up of badly photoshopped skull imagery and meta-commentary on band websites.
Don't try to download the two tracks available on the Cantora Records website if you want any idea of what comprises their self-described "surf/jungle/country" rock, either. The pleasing lo-fi dance rock found on "Destrokk," interspersed with the Beach Boys-inspired, Of Montreal-perfected harmonies, are severely misleading. If you ever see them live, expect instead every song to devolve into a wall of amateur guitar wailing, "ooh-ooh"-ing and stereotypical indie synth backing. The lead singer is simply unmemorable in recording, but simply incomprehensible in concert. Which isn't a bad thing, when you have to sing things like "We'll choke on our vomit and that will be the end … Yeah yeah yeah."
Grand Buffet
After some "State of Emergency" butchering, the concert took a welcome turn to the intentionally absurd. The heroin addict-looking individual alluded to before, "Lord Grunge," appeared, along with a grown-up version of your friend's annoying kid brother who ran around the house with a cape and turned over your Scrabble tiles. Apparently he's still wearing the cape, and also still mocking your secret love of "Sesame Street."
Yes, Grand Buffet — as the stand-up comedy/’80s hip-hop duo inexplicably dubs itself — began their set with a diatribe against Elmo. Mocking the tender age of the audience, Grand Buffet weaved a conspiracy involving a Muppet brought out on stage, the CIA and the Russians offing Jim Henson, and "Red" Elmo. This brought some boos, so the caped man, "Grape-A-Don," qualified: "Hey, satire rhymes with vampire… I hear you got a Red Lobster here." This kind of absurd transition marked the entire show, which featured more banter and backflips than actual music. The beats were entirely stale, and an amusing, if not accomplished, rap/showtune belting mix. How could you fault them, though, with one-liners like "I don't want to out any celebrities, but the Cat in the fucking Hat is among us"?
The one standout piece of actual music among the jokes made up for the fillers, the hilarious "Cream Cheese Money." It can't be replicated, but hearing the two sing, "You broke my fish tank/ And pancaked my wife" over and over is a transcendent experience. And despite the audience mockery, I think it was with complete sincerity that Grape-A-Don gave his parting promise to keep in touch. "And if you're not on Gmail yet, man, I'll fucking send you an invite."
Of Montreal
If it seems like I have delayed the climax even more than usual, I must admit the main event — complete with beat-pulsing lit platforms, black angel wings and crudely animated videos of lusty sailors and the Statue of Liberty exploding from an Andy Warhol cutouts — was at times disappointing.
I'm not one to demand substance over style, as evidenced by my love of Grand Buffet, but Kevin Barnes and company's entrance, with an extended "So Begins our Alabee" opening, consisted more of each member running up to each other and chatting in pantomime than playing. In contrast to their bouncing-off-the-walls Pitchfork performance, here the props seemed to confine each member, except for Barnes and his strut across the stage.
Inexcusably, for a band talented enough to do more than dance to a CD played through nice speakers, the drumset was put center stage, but was empty until midway through the fourth song.
The second half made a deliberate turn from repression to spontaneity, segueing from the dark, lo-fi instrumental tracks off Sunlandic Twins to a manic-depressive version of "Oslo in the Summertime."
Barnes reappeared in a fencing mask, jumping around to his signature falsetto and rising, tuneful screams, which was pulled off to reveal… another mask. Are we to take that the performer can never reveal his true self? But philosophical questions are soon forgotten when he reveals the rest of his costume — short shorts and pantyhose. Several sex kitten numbers, including "Exquisite Confessions" off Of Montreal's forthcoming album, displayed Barnes' sense of humor about the effeminate rocker stereotype, singing in a Tina Turner-esque voice and posing at one point like a Playboy bunny.
None of the new tracks showed much musical evolution, but by the time the inevitable encore rolled around, the audience was on its feet and dancing all the same. And won over by the sheer spectacle — opera house be damned — so was I.
