Christina Zoeller's smoldering voice had a hint of quiver, and she smiled ever so slightly while singing, eyes lowered, her lyrics an amusing secret for herself. The rest of the band weren't giving her away: They stayed stoic behind their instruments, jabbing at a Korg, plinking on a bass or guitar, flitting over drums, each playing in a quietly sassy manner equivalent to raising an eyebrow. And the audience went nuts for it, bopping up and down, shaking their shoulders and hips, flinging their hair, screaming like it was a Beatles concert.
They'd already gotten a good warm-up from opener Pan de Sal, which started off its set with a shy explanation of a sing-along ("If you know the alphabet," whimpered the guitarist) in the middle of the first track. Deep from the gut of some loudmouth in the back of the room exploded, "Shut your f--king mouth and play!"
They began with some indie-rocker baloney: "You drive me crazy with those tight designer jeans," a dude whined. Then out of nowhere, a dirty-butt guitar ripped into the night. There were way more people onstage than necessary, like it was 4 a.m. in someone's living room, and someone had the drunken idea for a jam sesh.
Ah, it was a joke. Suddenly the terribleness of it all became quite good.
"Anybody wanna be in the band?" asked a tambourine-shaker rocking that late-'90s D.C. punk look—short, tight black pants, white belt, spiky black hair—as he offered a maraca. A guy with what must've been a tracheotomy wearing a nubby, oatmeal-colored knit cap topped off with a pom-pom took him up on it.
They carried on forever with trumpet, turntables, various percussive instruments, wanky guitar, dreamy samples from some electronic box and glitchy trip-hop beats. Occasionally someone would wrassle a mic hooked up to effects that gave the impression the vocals were delivered from a distant tin can sending future transmissions from outer space.
Sparkly electronic noodling gave way to race-horse bugling over grainy wave crashes, which turned into an aimless drum circle complete with floor stomping. People were doing push-ups and donkey kicks onstage.
A spiky-haired girl in ice cream-colored Reeboks jumped down and started freaking a couple girls in the front row. She got back up and rapped like an angry thug, then collapsed in the audience—on my foot, to be exact, with her back leaning against my leg. And I loved it. I felt like I was a part of something—something stupid as hell, and not that good, but at least that something was warm and had a sense of humor. I took off for Art Bar happy, caveman and feminist sated.
*****
As Gideon was rapping in three separate voices with three separate narratives all battling one another over some whacked time-warp, humpalicious beats, the dancer removed his sparkly leopard-print sweater and threw it in his friend's face. He straddled some girl sipping her drink quietly in the corner, got back on his mini stage, bent over and rubbed his crack flush with the pole. Earlier that night, at Bunkhouse, I overheard a conversation he was having with a friend, a fey, cute, dark-haired elfling sporting a hoodie that featured a screen print of male and female symbols interlocking. "Isn't that, like, against our culture?" the dancer boy asked. He then explained earnestly that he was trying to grow his hair out like Fabio.
The night got weirder when Baltimoron Dan Deacon, a loony genius who conjures giggly melodies over ADD beats, took the stage. In between shouting over his hyper, warped dance tracks, Deacon entertained us with compelling, completely made-up stories: about a giant bong that sprouted wings and caressed his face; about some guy pissing a swastika into the snow, making a yellow snowball, squeezing it until it melted and opening his fist to reveal a single shiny gold coin.
He started off several of his songs with nonsensical countdowns, like yelling "parents" instead of numbers. An older blond woman in tight jeans and big hair flashed the V for victory sign and stuck her tongue through it. And the audience gladly went along with it. Girls smooshed together on the dance floor and sweated until the bitter end. I went home with a broken necklace, whiplash and a smile on my face.