A day-glo
abomination in a Euro disco somewhere between hipster Williamsburg and
Polish Greenpoint, Brooklyn. A neon horrorshow, punk at 16 rpm (and vinyl
references work well for a band that released its first album close to 20
years ago). The Butthole Surfers got old and worried about royalties, The
Residents got old and worried about no royalties, and Sun City Girls got old
and just kept being Sun City Girls. But whatever it is that makes bands
weird out west, Caroliner continue to embrace. They're uncompromising in
their oddity.
The stage, outfitted with an electric batik upchuck
and the band, similarly dressed, hooded and antlered, chugged tightly along,
rigga digga digga and boom boom boom, klong klong, teek teek teek and yelp
while a Yoko banshee filled the role of lead singer (one of the clutter of
members who'd take on that task over the course of the night). A New York City rule
of thumb: if the No Neck Blues Band is in the audience, you're in the right
place.
Like the aforementioned oddities of Western rock (and
like US Maple and others in the younger set), Caroliner both destroy and are
beholden to the notion of being a rock'n'roll band. Electric guitars and
drums and stageshow, all done deeply wrongly. The power of the mask:
anything you do becomes mythic, ritualistic, seemingly riddled with intent.
And if you're not a person, it's OK, apparently, for the audience to tear at
the many sweatshirt sleeves hanging from your neck, and it's just as OK for
you to fight (fight, and kick and hit) back. Rainbow rituals may
be created in the moment, but they're not happenstance. They contribute to
a whole, whatever that whole might be (and I for one have no idea, but do
know that by the time they finished their set it seemed as if they'd just
begun).
Another rock'n'roll covenant is the encore, and yet
another, the angry, moody singer. Both ARE honored here. "We do one more,"
hollered a singer (the kicker, not the banshee), "but gets back from the
stage. I don't want no more tickling. Gets the hell back, gets back, gets
the hell back." While kicking, of course.
Thanks due to North Six,
the Williamsburg club that when temporarily closed by the fire marshall
after a punk band advertised the latest and most dangerous in pyrotechnics,
managed to rebook every show during their 2-week hiatus. And thanks,
although it was probably fiat more than finesse, for dropping Caroliner in
the depths of the Europa Nightclub, with its peroxied and tight-panted
barmaids and its unmistakable ambiance. The Eurodisco payoff: a waitress all
in white and ties, chomping gum and making her way to the front at the end
of the set, four empty mugs in her hands, stopping, jaw dropping and staring at the
pounding beasts onstage. A bouncer downstairs, who when asked
what was happening upstairs, apparently by a regular, said "Oh, just some
American band."
When finally they (the band, not the sparse crowd)
could take no more, they tore themselves from the stage, forcing their way
through the audience as if it were necessary to use force, screaming and
throttling anyone who yelled back. Caroliner desperately don't want to be a
band, or didn't want to play that night, or didn't want us to know if they
did. Perhaps vocational classes might help them, but then who'd be left to
carry their fluorescent cowboy freak flag?
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