The Dresden Dolls Ain't Nuttin Ta Fuck Wit

Friday night was the Boston CD release party for The Dresden Dolls' new album Yes, Virginia... at the Orpheum Theatre. As an emotionally-stirred Amanda Palmer remarked while surveying the nearly packed 2,800-seat theatre, they've come a long way since trying to lure audiences to come see them play the coffin-sized Lizard Lounge. (If that paragraph doesn't sound like archetypal newspaper article fodder, I don't know what does.)

The audience, it should be mentioned, consisted of a high volume of striped clothing, bowler hats, guys in dresses, pagan princesses, pancake makeup, elves, living statues, and strangely enough, even some normal streetclothes now and again. The nefarious Dresden Dolls Brigade lurked outside in the alleyway, drawing chalk figures on nearby surfaces and generally behaving outlandishly.

First act on the bill was Porsches on the Autobahn - essentially a DJ, some highly caffeinated guys in suits armed with mikes, and a steamer trunk's worth of props. Their shtick seemed to be campy kung fu dancing and German translated badly into English. The only song I caught the lyrical gist of concerned the urge to have sexual relations with a girl's retina. During the final song the Dresden Dolls pounced onstage for some high energy boogying.

Inscrutable swordswallower Tyler Fyre played master of ceremonies between sets, introducing sideshow attractions such as a floozy who did a striptease while swinging a hulahoop and a frizzyheaded mad scientist and fraulein duo who told fractured fairy tales, then hurled toast at the audience.

HUMANWINE was the second musical act, bringing their wineriddled gypsy punk manifestos to the masses. Holly Brewer looked so diminutive when she first stepped onto the vast Orpheum-sized stage, but when the band exploded into "Big Brother," her formidable lungs let no one down. Drummer Nathan Greenslit must have bribed the soundman, because every nuanced brushstroke was audible, not to mention a kick drum like a heart seizure. They offered us "Rivolta Silenziosa," "Script Language," "Fattest Thin" (the stomping ogre singalong), and a few new numbers that sounded like a progrock band getting ambushed by razorwielding hoodlums. Amanda and Brian joined them onstage for the finale of "Wake Up," banging on a hodgepodge of bangable things.




Alright then, the Dresden Dolls. This seemed like a dressed-down event for them, though the trademark bowler hat and striped stockings were present. They opened the set with "Sex Changes," sort of the aural equivalent of a drill through the groin. In the best possible way, of course. The set list was heavily tipped in favor of the new album, which is to be expected, and we were treated to scalding versions of "Back Stabber," "Dirty Business," and "Mandy Goes To Med School."

"Coin-Operated Boy" was gotten out of the way early on, and included some deadly doublebass peddle action during the interlude. Surprisingly nothing caught fire during a hyper-accelerated "Girl Anachronism." In fact, at the end of "Necessary Evil" an overenthused Brian toppled over backwards, knocking equipment left and right. Amanda took the moment to introduce him as "Brian Viglione on the drums and the floor."

There was a round of cover tunes as well, notably Jacques Brel's "Amsterdam," the Maurice Sendak/Carol King ditty "Pierre," and Leonard Cohen's "Dance Me to the End of Love," which they intended to record for a friend's wedding, but ended up struggling with the harmony. After a few amusing false starts they nailed it on the fourth attempt.

There were guest appearances as well. Holly Brewer crept out of the shadows for some soaring backup vocals on "Delilah" against a rather apocalyptic backlighting. The Dolls also brought onstage a cluster of feather boa-toting thirteen-year-olds known as Sparkle Motion Girl Authority for a schoolgirl rendition of "I Love Rock and Roll." They fucked that one up too, but I doubt anyone minded. They fuck up charmingly.

Amanda introduced the encore by bemoaning the lack of energy at modern day concerts, notably audiences who watch with arms folded and heads nodding, as though in fear of expression. "Something died in the nineties." And she admired the energy issuing from the crowd on Brian's roadfood Iron Maiden CDs. (Brian flashed devil's horns.) With that they launched into "Sing," during which they were joined onstage by a HUMANWINE and Girl Authority chorus for some quality group ahhing. Many contributing audience members did their best to make Amanda proud. A sappy yet stirring way to end the evening.

I Saw Regina Spektor Tonight & You Didn't

I'm a relative newcomer to the wondrous Regina Spektor. A NYC friend told me about her, then I borrowed Soviet Kitsch from the library & was hooked. I always figure I'm the last person to get into an act these days, & by the time that I do everyone else is already scoffing at them as Old Hat (see Modest Mouse). I figured this would be the same with Regina Spektor, but I still get a lot of blank looks when I mention her name. When they ask what sort of music she plays I usually describe her as the prankster daughter of Tori Amos & Woody Allen - which makes perfect sense to me, but I'm not sure how informative that is for the uninitiated.

Her show at the Axis was sold out, but thanks to my friendly neighborhood craigslist, I managed to secure a stray ticket. Axis, it turns out, is a crappy place for a musician to play. Especially one whose music is as subtle as Ms Spektor's. It's a small venue - more or less a back cloakroom to the much-larger Avalon next door. Every time a staff member opened a side door which separated the two venues, very un-Spektorish house music leaked in, which contributed nothing to the softer numbers. Ms Spektor kept her cool when this would happen, charmingly grooving along to the intrusive music between numbers. "There's a giant pink elephant in the corner," she said at one point, "but I'm just going to treat it like this is our house & the neighbors are throwing a party."

She played all the crowd favorites from Soviet Kitsch - "Carbon Monoxide," "Ode to Divorce," "Us," "The Ghost of Corporate Future," & "Poor Little Rich Boy," during which she whacked a stool with a drumstick in her left hand while playing piano with her right. She did however leave out my favorite tune from the album, "Chemo Limo." Also on the playlist was a jaunty ditty about finding a statue of baby Jesus in the window of a 99 cent store, one about a skeletal Ezra Pound asking if she could spare a pound of flesh, & another featuring Delilah reflecting upon her hirsute relationship with Samson.

For most the show I stood on a side platform (near the bar) overlooking the crowd. At one point there was a sea of illuminated cell phones held aloft, just like the swaying cigarette lighters of yore. I couldn't help ruminating that analog fire has now been replaced by the digital glow of technology.

Her opening act was a singer/guitarist named Jenny Owen Youngs who was funny & flirty, & possessor of a wicked right hand strum technique. Unfortunately she tended to remain stage left, which meant a structural column mostly blocked her from my line of vision unless I leaned far over the balcony railing. Which I did.

A beautiful show, despite the setbacks. But I'd like to advise Ms Spektor's booking agent to snag her a gig at the Paradise next time, where she can ply her trade without fear of aural competition.

Mah Jong

Tonight I trekked down to Brookline to catch the infamous Erica Jong reading from her latest outing, Seducing the Demon, which is an autobiography (of sorts) of her literary life as liberator or pornographer, depending on where you're standing. Jong was intelligent, articulate, & strongly opinionated. She steered frequently into the realm of current events, which is clearly a sensitive topic for her. The attentive audience filled the windowless basement of the independent bookstore to capacity, with many members spilling onto the stairs. They even remembered to shut off their cell phones at the outset, a surprisingly considerate gesture.

Jong mentioned "the zipless fuck" early on, perhaps just to get it out of the way. It sort of deflated any tension from those wondering whether to expect feminism or smut. A little of each perhaps? She didn't have to worry about anyone leaning over & whispering cautiously "now Ms Jong, you know this is a family program, right?" Everyone seemed to know what they were getting themselves into & I spotted no emergency escapes.

Beforehand I'd heard several mentions of Fear of Flying bandied through the crowd. Obviously that is still the yardstick she is measured by. A mixed blessing. Is the rest of her oeuvre subpar to that notorious novel, or simply not as sensational? As a prospective artist, the thought of requiring a media blitzkrieg to attract any sort of serious attention for your work is disheartening.

The writer's role, Jong claimed, is to present truths. She paraphrased Norman Mailer that if a writer isn't pissing someone off, they're not doing their job. She insisted that censorship is still alive & well, just that it's craftier these days & harder to spot. She pointed out that most of the media in the country is run by six conglomerates, who filter the information they distribute according their political agendas. She targeted Murdoch in particular.

She lamented the low number of readers in our culture, & pointed out that "if people would read Herodotus they'd realize this Iraq situation is business as usual. Historically the people in charge always go to war with pretenses of correcting injustices while really doing it for profit." She also mentioned the "death of the middle class" in which fathers have to work too much, mothers have to work too much, children need to be shipped off to child care. She suggested this is a deliberate condition, to keep people too busy for activism.

Alas, this was the converted she was preaching to. I was ultimately disappointed in the audience, who didn't appear very inclined towards critical thought, at least not the more audible ones. The chatty woman beside me seemed more concerned with critical reception of the new book than in its contents. "What are people saying about it?" I overheard several accounts of "I liked it. It was interesting." Opinions rarely seem to venture past the point of "it was interesting" these days. Maybe I'm just eavesdropping on the wrong people.

The Q&A which followed the reading was mostly pointless. Many didn't actually have questions to ask, they just wanted to snag a platform to voice their opinions, which were without exception echoes of what Jong had already said. The woman beside me did a generous amount of ahhing & nodding, as though engaged in a private conversation with Jong herself. One older couple passed notes back & forth on a notepad as if they were in school. I couldn't read what was on the pad but it looked like mathematical formulas.

A provocative evening in many ways. In retrospect, however, I wouldn't have minded a little more smut.