Of Montreal @ The Pageant, 10/24/08

Last Friday, Georgie Fruit – Kevin Barnes’ middle-aged black she-male alter ego and the protagonist of Skeletal Lamping – opened a window to his psyche, inviting legions of ecstatic listeners to bask in the neon glow. The view was over-stimulating; there was simply too much for the audience to comprehend. Someone must reign in Barnes’ id, or his hyper-caffeinated roadshows will keep ballooning in scale until the audience is consumed in a Day-Glo blaze. Such unadulterated visual mania can’t be good for the heart; as a doctor of science, I demand moderation.

Musically, the band was in fine form most of the set; unfortunately, aural pleasure was a secondary motive, after visual stimulation. Three video screens hovered above the band. The never-ceasing footage was largely uninspired – close-ups of the various band members alternated with awful 8-bit psychedelia alternated with sub-Squidbillies animations – though the live-action video of four rubber heads being paraded through an urban wasteland during “Kongsvinger” was surreal enough to warrant audience attention. A montage during “Gallery Piece” failed largely because the video was out-of-sync – the appropriate image did not coincide with the appropriate lyric.

Beneath the screens, at center stage, five dancers performed brief vignettes to further enthrall the audience. The troop initially appeared behind Barnes during “Id Engager” dressed in bulbous gold Buddha costumes, cavorting across the stage like drunk birds-of-paradise desperate for attention. The choreographed dances were simplistic but poorly performed, and the un-choreographed stuff was too frantic – elbows rocketed in all directions, legs flailed, heads jerked wildly from side-to-side. The Buddhas were rapidly replaced by an elaborate saloon set piece to accompany “She’s A Rejector.” Guns were drawn, a wooden table was overturned, playing cards flew across the stage, and the cowboys ducked behind opposing amps to enact an Old West shoot-out. The acting was amusing, but the necessity of cleanup before the next bit ruined the illusion – the wounded cowboys were frantically picking up playing cards as they writhed across the stage.

As a frontman, Barnes was energetic but conservative during the first third; he pogo-ed across the stage but remained aloof from the more overt theatrics until he performed “St. Exquisite’s Confessions” wearing a red Cardinal’s robe while being massaged by a half-dressed nun. The next seventy minutes were dizzying. Barnes was hanged from the gallows, morphed into a centaur; painted red, and covered in shaving cream. Five ninjas assembled and disassembled a paper-maché man. A man with the head of a cockatoo writhed in agony as a tiger wearing a white tuxedo coat played guitar and then made out with a cowboy. It was fascinating to watch, but so much stimulation was disorientating. The show was undoubtedly a spectacle, but a spectacle in desperate need of an editor.

Setlist
Id Engager
So Begins Our Alabee
Triphallus, To Punctuate!
She’s A Rejector
For Our Elegant Caste
Touched Something’s Hollow
An Eluardian Instance
Heimdalsgate Like A Promethean Curse
Gallery Piece
Wraith Pinned To The Mist (And Other Games)
Women’s Studies Victims
St. Exquisite’s Confessions
Eros’ Entropic Tundra
Nonpareil Of Favor
October Is Eternal
Wicked Wisdom
Disconnect The Dots
And I’ve Seen A Bloody Shadow
Plastis Wafers
Beware Our Nubile Miscreants
Mingusings
A Sentence Of Sorts In Kongsvinger
(encore)
Gronlandic Edit
Oslo In The Summertime
Smells Like Teen Spirit (Nirvana)


[Adam Rux]