Hey Baby, Ever Seen Performance Art Melded With Musical Deconstruction?
Granada Theater 2/3/2010
Taken from residents.com:
“’What are ghosts’ ask The Residents - spirits of those no longer inhabiting the flesh, but unable to leave their lives behind? Or could ghosts be a manifestation of something even less tangible, like loneliness, unfulfilled desire or isolation? In a world where nearly everything has become defined and categorized, how do we fill our obvious, purely human need for the fuzzy, vague and supernatural - with TV commercials?
The ghost of a morbidly obese woman haunts her lesbian lover, filling the void of death with food commercials and Dr. Phil. A man becomes obsessed by the spirit of an executed serial killer who stuffed the mouths of his victims with Pudding Roll Ups, an extinct kid's food from the 1980's. A dead boa constrictor named Leonard (after Leonard Cohen, of course) plagues the mind of its former owner, currently consuming Oscar Meyer hot dogs by the dozen. These are just a few of the "ghost stories" told through the magic of The Residents' Talking Light.”
Disclaimer: If you're going to drop by a Residents performance, it is important to check your preconceptions about music and what it should be at the door. If you're expecting flowing western melodies and grooves you can cut a rug to, then you're probably going to be largely disappointed (and very, very confused).
The Residents are not really a “band.” Not in the traditional sense, at least. They’re more like a collective that has sought to avoid compartmentalization since inception. Wikipedia describes them as “an avant-garde/experimental music and visual arts group,” but you could call them performance artists. If you have never heard of the Residents, perhaps you have heard of Primus, Mr. Bungle, or Animal Collective, bands who have tabbed the Residents as major influences. In terms of performance art, the Talking Light tour stop this writer witnessed served to go beyond entertainment: the Residents efforts melded performance art with a deconstructive musical soundtrack. If that peaks your interest (why wouldn’t it?) I suggest you look the group up online for some interesting reads regarding the mystery surrounding the performers and the critical efforts that are their releases.
The Granada seemed rather ordered Wednesday night: people at candle lit tables with plenty of space in the aisles, a vocal din that prevented no private conversation. The room was about half capacity with an average age of… well they were older than I. This made sense, as the Residents have had a rather loyal fan base since the 70s. Speaking of the 70s, when the Residents took the stage it appeared as though the ‘front man’ was a 70 year old in a bathrobe. Randy, as he called himself, introduced the audience to Chuck and Bob, his flanking keyboardist and guitar player. These two were like a cryptic sort of Bones and Tambo, garbed in black from face to toe, with dreadlock wigs and gigantic goggles. We were informed that their fourth member, Carlos, had retired, much to the audiences’ chagrin. The stage was set as a living room: faux burning fireplace with decorated mantle, lazy boy adorned with doilies for head and hands, a TV tuned to static. Inviting the audience into your home, so to speak, is an interesting way for a performer to break the fourth wall. However, I expected heavy audience participation but was disappointed. I didn’t know the music and I was often confused or lost in introspective tangents and creepy space-outs; perhaps the same could be said for everyone else. I was sure that some audience members where chemically altered; I caught at least one whiff of somebody breaking the law.
For the next two hours (encore included) the Residents treated us to a series of spooky stories, mostly broken up into four acts, accompanied with what could be described as a haunting atonal soundtrack. It was sort of like watching a live performance of Salad Fingers, or a theatrical B movie, or maybe an elderly man’s descent into dementia (with musical guests Chuck and Bob). The stories featured characters and their morbid obsessions, their demons, their neurosis. One was about Mirror People, another about a girl venting to Dr. Phil about her obsession with her dead and once morbidly obese lesbian lover. Seriously.
The acts were broken apart with video interludes: Randy operated a hand held device that he aimed at three white circles suspended above the stage and projected a series of interview-esque story segments. Randy remained in character throughout the show, and occasionally provided some dark humor that prompted what seemed to be relieving laughter and a break from the insanity. Otherwise, the show was a barrage of spoken word horror stories, disjointed and jagged dance moves, partially melodic choruses, and a cacophony of sound. Sometimes it was like Aphex Twin or NIN industrial, other times it was creepy lullabies with sinister overtones, and I especially enjoyed the random enigmatic, angular guitar solos.
I left the Granada and entered the cold and rainy Wednesday evening, fitting weather for what I had just witnessed. I wondered what I would be like when I reached the peak of senility, I wondered why we like music formatted and packaged the way we do, I wondered if music could be judged solely on how it appeals to preconceptions of harmony or whether or not it promotes a rhythmic movement of the buttocks.
I can appreciate the Residents performance because it made me think. However, I do not think something like this can be appreciated in a form other than live performance; such is the ephemeral nature of performance art. If the CD were in my possession, Id leave it packaged. The live performance on the other hand, you can’t escape it. Maybe its because you cant look away from such ridiculousness. Maybe its because you’re being held hostage and you want your moneys worth. Ill go with the former. The Residents provided something unique, thought provoking and refreshing, and it gave me a newfound appreciation for whatever was on my iPod when I got back to my car.
