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LiveDC: of Montreal / James Husband @ 930 Club

February 1, 2010 by Phelps

all photos: Jane Briggs
all words: Josh Phelps

Of Montreal announced the return of their psychedelic soul revue just a few weeks before they actually graced the 930 Club stage last Thursday, selling out the club on the strength of what is becoming one of the weirdest exhibit of rock show theatrics and slick visuals this side of Wayne Coyne’s bubble and furries.  2008’s Skeletal Lamping circus saw multiple set changes, executions, minotaurs, two drummers, and more costumes than Lady GaGa on an awards show.  This over the top showmanship has simultaneously drawn in the accolades, drawn out the freaks,  and pushed away some of the “Satanic Panic” or bust fans: the ones who aren’t following Kevin Barnes through the Georgie Fruit future-disco vortex that has shaped the past two years.  That’s too bad, as Barnes has jettisoned the myriad electronic backing tracks for this run and enlisted drummer Jamey Huggins as the soul beat provider, maniacally banging life into tracks that are impossibly inhuman.

Speaking of Jamey, his own project, “James Husband,” opened the show with several Of Montreal members backing him up.  Dottie Alexander was on keys and even Kevin Barnes joined the party for a few songs behind the drum kit.  OM’s drummer/multi-instrumentalist since 1998, Jamey’s solo work has him indulging in more traditional pop fare than Mr. Barnes and the crowd seemed receptive to the tracks he featured off of “A Parallax I,” released last year with a bonus ep of covers including The Beatles, Gary Numan, and Guided By Voices.  Curiously, the cover featured in his set was of Swedish upstart Lykke Li’s “A Little Bit.”  Jamey laid down the guitar in favor of a maraca, encouraging the warming-up crowd who reciprocated with hand claps and dancing.  You could see the approval in the crowd, the bandmates watching in the wings, and a grin from Ms. Alexander.

The club lights drew down once again around 9:30 with the now typical tiger-man in a white suit jacket roaring to the crowd and signaling the band’s entrance.  Barnes emerged from stage right in full Georgie regalia, replete with glamour-shot makeup, head scarf, and tight red jeans that made my own crotch hurt.  Dismissing the tiger with a wag of the finger, Barnes and crew launched immediately into “Suffer for Fashion” and the astral funk of “Mingusings,” each one punctuated by Alexander’s keyboard gymnastics and decidedly more muscular in the absence of the backing tracks that drenched the sound of previous performances.  This was a theme that would ring out the entire evening.  Precious tunes re-imagined, sometimes riling up the kids with full on metal onslaughts as on “Plastis Wafers.”  A less sensitive crowd may have been moved to a mosh-pit by Bryan Poole’s crunching guitar, but the entire 930 floor just hopped in unison to Barnes’ falsetto pleasure puss cries.  He pranced and weaved between the hyper-sexual and pharmaceutical, sandwiching  “St. Exquisite’s Confessions,” Spike the Senses,” “And I’ve Seen a Bloody Shadow” and “Heimdalsgate Like a Promethean Curse” into the middle of the set.  One can hardly blame the crowd for dancing joyously to the latter, as the enthused music betrays the subject matter: Barnes’ pleas that his own mind not play saboteur to his wife’s attempt to salvage his sanity.

Rest assured that the move towards a more traditional rock show was firmly planted in the aural.  The usual suspects of David Barnes’ (Kevin’s brother) intricate visuals graced enormous screens above the band and a series of performances took place amongst the songs, ranging from quarreling piggies (but sadly, no Susan Sarandon)  to a naughty bishop catching a beatdown (“He got it in the end… but not the way he wanted it” quipped Barnes.)  Projections included acid-washed psychadelia bouncing off of black body suited dancers with green faces, green capes, and green light sabers.

Did this augment the show?  Depends on who you’re asking.  I can’t piss on the parades of the braces contingent whose shrill screams moved in unison to every undulation of Barnes hips, who oohed and aaahed at every bizarre scenario playing out onstage.  Their minds were probably being blow right out the backs of their heads, but I was concerned less with the outrageousness of the theatrics than how much they’d diminished since 2008, and how much easier it was to focus on the actual music.  Extended versions of “A Sentence of Sorts on Kongsvinger” and “Rejecter” were the sound of a band baring its teeth much more menacingly than any tiger-mask.  Would they have been any less effective without confetti explosions and a half-naked Barnes crucified under the strobes by blonde wraiths?

Doesn’t really matter, this is a Kevin Barnes party and I wouldn’t be surprised if they support this fall’s tentatively titled “False Priest” in an above ground pool with synchronized swimming.  I still want to be invited.  The night closed with The Jackson 5’s “I Want You Back,” a perfect sing-along to let the kids down easy after the Jesus Christ freak-out and a warm way to end a show marked with intensity and the pushing and pulling of sound versus distraction.

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