Man Or Astroman, On The Might Of Princes and Black-Eyed Snakes
Mercury Lounge, New York (November 3, 2001)
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Man or Astroman?
Mercury Lounge, New York
November 3, 2001 |
Such was the case Saturday night at New York City's Mercury Lounge. Long Island's On The Might Of Princes took to the stage around 9:15 p.m. with a group of hometown fans, versed in all the song's lyrics, in tow. But as the set progressed through their emotionally heavy arrangements filled with screaming and hot licks, the crowd began to trickle in from the venue's bar to catch a glance and an earful of the four piece and their angular, multi-part songs. On set closer "For Meg," the thrashing guitars and insane drumming gave way to voices (from both stage and crowd) singing the refrain "I'll scream it / 'til your ears bleed / you'll always have a friend in me," before rocking out one final time.
With the crowd thoroughly warmed, Duluth, Minnesota's best all-white-man blues band, Black-Eyed Snakes, delivered their booty shaking, soulful take on a series of blues tracks. Fronted by the sexy, compelling Chicken Bone George (more often known as everyone's favorite ethereal, melancholy Mormon rocker, Al Sparhawk of Low), the quartet's performance was filled with the mad guitar licks of Smokin' Brad Nelson and the crazy drum thumping of Big House Bobby Olson. They ably morphed a series of songs from the likes of Howlin' Wolf and Moby ("Honey") as well as some of their own arrangements into a dark and magical, punk-tinged blues revival. "Eight Inch Knife" with its plodding tempo and devastating hooks cut through the air with a vigor and ferocity similar to the song's story line -- in which a man murders his wife for being unfaithful. When the set ended, everyone was left thinking "who would win in a fight: the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion or Black-Eyed Snakes?" My money's on the latter.
Thoroughly roused and aroused by the Black-Eyed Snakes' smoking performance, there was anticipation lingering in the air as the elaborate stage set up for Man or Astro-man?'s set began to take shape. Eventually, bassist/quirky sound maker Coco, crazy drummer Birdstuff, and the relatively stoic guitarist Star Crunch all pushed their way through the crowd to the stage where techie-psychadelic images flashed across a series of large screens. Clad in black jump suits bearing the band's logo on the back, as well as black aviator goggles, the three preceded to unleash the fury of their surf rock/experimental instrumental arrangements on a room packed with willing listeners. One part music, one part performance art, Birdstuff's frantic and orgiastic drumming and facial expressions took center stage during the songs as Star Crunch blazed through them with his stellar guitar work. The trio's quirky and fun stage demeanor filled the time between songs, getting the crowd yet more hyped up in anticipation of the next possibility. In a moment of true musical genius (that a modernist composer like John Cage would be proud of) the three wheeled out a cart supporting an early Apple computer and the ubiquitous Imagewriter II printer. Fully mic-ed, Coco set it to work and the printer delivered "A Simple Text File" as the three rocked out (as fans, adding nothing instrumentally) to the compelling sounds of early home computer technology.
After more fast and sweaty rock'n roll, the band knew it was time to wind down. Paying homage to the rest of the bill, they, like the crowd, recognized the fact that the whole night of music had been quite exceptional. In the final act of futuristic mayhem, a contraption that can only be described as a lightning tower was wheeled on stage and the band delivered one last song with Coco deserting the bass in favor of the tower's controls. Atop the brutal drumming and cutting hooks, electric buzzing sounds filled everyone's ears.
Having pulled out all the stops, the purple lightning bolts that emerged from the top of the tower faded away and the crowd was left with only the memories of night when screamo-emo, punk-tinged blues, and instrumental surf music united everyone behind the rock.
A.K. GOLD | A.K. Gold lives in Washington, D.C., where she slaves away for a non-profit organization and constantly compares everything to New York City or Chicago. She's earned her "cred" as a college radio and pre-1960 country music DJ, committed indie label street teamer, sporadic zinemaker/contributor, retired mail-order filler and occasional freelance writer. From time to time, she publishes Anecdotal Evidence, a per zine that will some day be considered for the National Book Award, or possibly not. If you want to buy a copy, or desire to write to her for some other reason, email criticgirl@hotmail.com.