Friday, April 08, 2005

The Fiery Furnaces, dios malos; Northsix

So yesterday I went to Trattoria Dante, where I ordered the caprese (buffalo mozzarella and tomato) for an appetizer and Penne Alla Vodka. A simple treat followed by a hulking saucy mass, which coasted on its predecessor's charm.

Tonight I went to the Fiery Furnaces show at Northsix. We missed Hal and Blood on the Wall (damn you L Train--ok, it wasn't your fault, we were just busy being fabulous).

We showed up in time for dios malos, formerly known as Dios. Recorded, dios' California romance is removed and ineffective. But up-close, their naive pop-garage rock makes the most of its sparse means. Simple lyrics over distorted guitars ("After all is said and done, I'm alone"), are more endearing than cliché.

And it's easier to feel for singer Kevin Morales when you see him. Even hiding behind his keyboard, Morales' Neil Young-style crooning wrapped the audience like a big ole' bear hug. I'm no friend of fatties, but Morales' weight makes his loneliness all the more poignant. Instead of waiting, as I might have typically done, for his canned cheese-drenched heart attack, I feared for nothing but the fat man's heartbreak.

If only the Fiery Furnaces could have been so innocuous as to be served on dios' delicate platter...

Unfortunately, the Fiery Furnaces are too dynamic recorded to be so pleasant live. Their set can be best likened to one of their adoring fans:

...Fitted with a two seasons past prime neon blue track jacket (in 2005? Come on dude), his uncanny grin only exaggerated what appeared to be a prematurely facelifted face. At maybe twenty, his dimples were stapled to the extremes of his shiny face, which bopped side to side like a tan balloon filled with wet cement. I was mesmerized. Too nauseated to keep constant watch, but hopeful that he might catch my glance and think I were hitting on him, that he'd creep over, that I'd drop my jaw and shriek my refusal, that, mortified, his horrid plaster face would dry--drop to the floor and shatter...

Okay, so it wasn't that bad. FF did their characteristic medley, to which I ask: Matthew, Eleanor, why? Choose a fucking song and stick to it. Although admittely it is 1. difficult to reproduce the majesty of their albums 2. really fucking cool that they re-arrange their songs 3. difficult to span the different sounds of their albums -- it just doesn't work. Eleanor, who regrettably did most of the singing, sounded dead for the most part. And the subtleties of the songs were lost to an upper register of the keyboard that melted my brain.

All in all, too nauseous for dessert.

Excellent side dish: the drummer's facial expressions, which ranged from troll to cheerleader and back to gargoyle.

2 Comments:

Anonymous Eugene said...

Why your brain melt at show?! me brain is very good music is good also woman look better real life than television. drummer very hotboy look shirt no. piano brain love mush. i read dancey boy die - car hit good. parade come up for celebrate dead dancey boy blue facelift. brain oozing out of nostril. yayyyy.
-it eug

5:38 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Good write up dodge daytona

3:42 PM  

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