A troupe of Manson Family doppelgänger in a homogenous bright-red color scheme took the stage and I knew my Friday evening was going to be worthwhile after all. I had had to search for the Davis Square VFW Hall in the rain and was grouchy over having to miss another show for this one. So I arrived at Paradosaurus Wreck, a rock/fashion/art show, ready to unload all manner of journalistic passive-aggression. To the Wreck’s great credit, I left in pleasant spirits.
Still, something felt eerie about scruffy, squirrelly Rhode Island trio Deer Tick as they entertained the bleep out of the densely occupied VFW. I had to check their MySpace page to discover the problem: their musical ringleader, John McCauley, is Matt McConaughey’s cousin. Deer Tick, however, are doing their best to redeem the family reputation. Although they’re not going to tingle many spines shooting for a Wildflowers-era Tom-Petty-Americana-type deal, their execution compensates for whatever they lack in imagination. I was upset by their ironic cover of Tool’s “Schism”; they didn’t even play the entire song. I was pleased that they covered, and creamed, without irony, “La Bamba.”
It’s actually not inappropriate to compare Brooklyn’s Flaming Fire with the Manson Family. FF ringmaster Patrick Hambrecht has long hair and a beard, he’s at the forefront of several peculiar characters (including a handful of, uh, hot chicks), and they may or may not be plotting to kill Dennis Wilson. As for the music, not even coming off their best acid orgy and/or baby delivery were Charlie and company ever in FF’s league. As the band crispy-fried my brain with psychedevil dance-pop noise, I scribbled “Satanic B-52’s” in my notes; but I could write them up as resembling numerous NYC “collective” bands, or even We Are the Seahorses, and it would make about the same sense.
It was the “fashion destruction” aspect of the Paradosaurus Wreck cavalcade that I’m not sure about. The first fashion show featured awkward models in white robes, one wearing a big fluffy Mozart wig. I didn’t get it. Bowing to the dictates of Greater Boston’s public-transportation overlords, I had to choose between watching the second fashion show, likely a once-in-a-lifetime extravaganza, and having a place to sleep.
