In Which Amanda Palmer Plots a Heist (and Nearly Gets Away With It)

One thing I admire about Amanda Palmer is she's not content to throw a by-the-numbers concert. Not when she can stage an EVENT, one big pulsing carnival of joy. Rarely have I been to a concert that feels as all-inclusive as hers. I can imagine someone not caring for her music, but I can't imagine anyone leaving one of her shows thinking it was boring. As one of life's natural instigators, she surrounds herself with a bevy of creative oddballs and artisans of all description. Last evening she did an admirable job of turning the sold-out Music Hall of Williamsburg into her own private harem.


The Cars' greatest hits played between acts as a kind of spiritual climate control.


Amanda herself appeared in her kimono to introduce the opening band, a string and horn combo masterminded by Grand Theft Orchestra's very own bassist, Jherek Bischoff.


Bischoff writes elegant compositions of orchestral chamber-pop somewhere in the Van Dyke Parks end of the pool. One such tune was based on the story of Little Red Riding Hood, or so was claimed.


Many of the compositions were instrumentals, though he did bring out a chanteuse named Jen Goma for a few numbers.




Bischoff himself summoned up the courage to helm the mike for one number.


Before breaking into the final number, he announced "One of the guest singers on my album was David Byrne... and he happens to be in the building tonight." The crowd erupted as Byrne took the stage, dressed all in white like an elder prophet of the New Wave.


After a short breakdown, Amanda summoned forth the second act. "Ladies and gentlemen, get ready to jizz... The Simple Pleasure!"


The Simple Pleasure is led by Grand Theft Orchestra's amphetaminal guitarist Chad Raines, who channeled T-Rex and Bowie with his spangled Strat and shiny trousers.






The third band was rather cheekily called Ronald Reagan, and billed as Boston's Premier Eighties Pop Saxophone Duo. Amanda later praised them as "next level shit." Alec Spiegelman on alto and Kelly Roberge on tenor tore into some acrobatic renditions of classic eighties cheese: "Don't Stop Believing," "Total Eclipse of the Heart," "We Built This City," and "Beat It."


Eddie Van Coltrane.


At times their quicksilver interaction was more like a death-defying juggling act than a musical performance. The inspired crowd filled in much of the vocals, though it was hardly necessary.


The Grand Theft Orchestra burst to life with "Do It With a Rock Star." The sound was rough at first but in an acceptably rocking way. The audience was quickly drenched in enthusiasm.






During "Missed Me" the whole band mischievously swapped instruments after each verse.


"Missed Me," verse one.


"Missed Me," verse two.


"Missed Me," verse three. She gets around.

"We should play the next one fast," suggested Michael McQuilken from behind the drumkit. "Not too fast," said Amanda, "I'll die." And with that they careened into "Girl Anachronism." The girl beside me nearly passed out from excitement.


Jherek Bischoff aims his laserscopic bass at the heavens.


Bischoff's backing string section returned to the stage for "Trout Heart Replica" and a stirring arrangement of "The Bed Song."


Amanda strapped on her Yamaha keytar for a cover of "Total Control" by The Motels.








Looking around for a place to lay her instrument after the song finished, Amanda mused, "I need a keytar stand... made of dreams."




A horn section was trotted out for a No Fucking Around version of the Dresden Dolls classic "Half Jack." Another new song, "Berlin," was introduced, titled not after the city but instead Amanda's fictitious stripper name.




After a teasingly long delay, the band returned for an encore, along with some stragglers they picked up backstage. What followed was a chaotic "Leeds United" with a stage full of flailing bodies.




I momentarily felt bad for David Byrne, who stood to one side with little to do...


...that is, until someone handed him an acoustic and he launched into an incendiary version of Talking Heads' "Burning Down the House."






Don't look for the Music Hall of Williamsburg after last night. You'll find only its smouldering remains.

THE GRAND THEFT ORCHESTRA:
Amanda Palmer: vox, keys, corset
Chad Raines: glam guitar, krautrock keys, Sgt Pepper jacket
Jherek Bischoff: bass, bowtie
Michael McQuilken: drums, quips
David Byrne: legendary aura

Louis Armstrong's House

Jazz legend Louis Armstrong and his fourth wife Lucille (a dancer he met at the Cotton Club) moved to Corona, Queens in 1943. There he lived for nearly thirty years, teaching the neighborhood kids to play trumpet and buying them ice cream. Lucille left the house to the city after her death, to be used as a museum. The garage where Louis kept his beloved Cadillac was turned into a giftshop and the basement game room into an exhibit hall. The rest of the three-story house was preserved as the Armstrongs had lived in it, filled with Chinese art and swinging retro-modern appliances. Many of the rooms feature built-in recordings of Louis speaking around his house. In one such recording, when asked about those upstart Beatles, Louis enthused "They're great! They've got a new beat there." In the upstairs den hangs a portrait of Louis painted by his friend Tony Bennett, affectionately signed "Benedetto."

Photography is not permitted on the residential floors (you can see photos of his kitchen at TheKitchn.com), but here's what I was otherwise able to get.








After his neighbors were evicted for nonpayment of rent, Louis had the house torn down and turned into this walled garden. The museum often puts on summer jazz concerts here.






The gold-plated Selmer trumpet given to Louis in 1933 by King George V of England.


"The property of Louis Armstrong."



Want more? Here's a great documentary of the man himself.


Satchmo.

The Impossible Girl

The Impossible Girl herself, Kim Boekbinder, struck again at one of the most unique lofts in Brooklyn. Known as the House of Collection, the space is filled to the rafters with two decades worth of dusty acquisitions—vintage typewriters, cameras, clocks, cash registers, fossils, hats, nets, farm equipment, stuffed animals, and various other artifacts of yore. Nothing less than a museum of Americana.

As if to set the tone of the evening, I walked in on a lively circle discussion of lesbianism in Archie comics. Three-fourths of a whiskey sour later, the Girl emerged impossibly from a hidden alcove, a blur of aladdin sane peacock plumage and glitter. She mounted a corner platform framed by ferns and fronds and began to craft swirling soundscapes from guitar-powered strands of spun silk, rattling chains, birdcalls, and squawking rubber lizards, even at one point incorporating the roar of the J train passing outside the window. These shimmering loops she harnessed into songs about gypsies, nuclear physics, avocados, and fucking. She even boldly improvised two new songs on the spot, one a cautionary tale about falling in love with someone from distant Australia, the other an ode to cephalopods. (The word "cephalopod" has always sounded to me like a flavor of exotic tea.) For an encore she returned wielding a banjolele (or "ukelanjo," if you're left-handed) for some heartfelt warbles sans gadgetry. I was foolish enough not to bring along my camera and had to make due with the one in my cellphone, hence the unfortunate grainy quality of the accompanying photos. Still, better than nothing.

On the way home I passed a didgeridoo busker on a subway platform, which seemed so uncannily appropriate in tone that I wondered how his presence had been arranged as a fanciful nightcap just for my benefit. A parting reminder never to underestimate the powers of the Impossible Girl.