Fischerspooner at the House of Blues, Oct. 5
At the half-way mark of Fischerspooner's Oct. 5 gig, frontman Casey Spooner, in a religious shaft of light, dramatically raised his hand Elvis-like and croaked, 'Watch me ... watch me ... .' For the duration of the set it was hard not to. Spooner is the abominable showman; over-the-top, a touch naughty, and full of fun. But FS isn't merely Spooner and co-frontman Warren Fischer, it's a frigging explosion of Vegas flash, techno-glamour, high-art trash, and goofiness.
FS's debut CD #1 is merely the soundtrack for the show. In fact the word that I got was that the show was the experience and the CD an afterthought (it comes with raves about the show on the cellophane). #1 is circuit-friendly techno with enough meat (hearty vocals, canyon-deep backbeats, unpredictable arrangements) to be far from a snooze. But enough about that ... the show:
There were innumerable costume changes, a wind machine, two confetti storms, a balloon drop, the most dramatic lighting that this critic has ever seen, and at least 40 gallons of eyeliner. There were also the dancers; a sextet of chilly high-kicking spike-haired fem-bots with snappy Bob Fosse moves. Spinning over it was Spooner, an unabashed dandy with the candor of a superstar drag queen and the drive to deliver (trashing white hip-hop, he called Eminem an 'unoriginal pussy boy').
The show is a joke FS has maintained, a send-up of artificiality and glitz. They beg to be taken at face value but that's the set-up and not the punchline. Audacious and vulgar, the FS floorshow is a convoluted maelstrom of choreography and demented spontaneity. By the third song Spooner warned the crowd that he was going to dive in and body surf ('Who wants to touch the spandex?'). It was the most predictable thing he did all night. Fischer popped up in anti-glamour drag (white jeans, white tees), dancing along in the chorus, then abruptly had a spasm, spewing chocolate syrup all over himself and the audience. Introducing 'Emerge' as 'the one song you probably know,' Spooner pulled the night's best gag. As the music pounded and the dancers rocked, the crowd went ape shit. Thirty seconds into the song when it seemed that it couldn't get any more extreme, Spooner walked to the foot of the stage, gave the SRO crowd a deadpan glare, and snapped, 'I don't think you're with us ... goodnight.' The lights dimmed and everyone left the stage.
Of course they came back, and 'Emerge' was not only furious but an explosion of movement, lights, and thunder, ending in a Spooner striptease. It wasn't a long show, but it was so theatrically packed that it was exhausting.
In this age of Britney, N'Sync and The Lion King, FS offers an antidote to big-ticket entertainment/boredom with more bang and wit for the buck. But what does it all mean? Couldn't tell ya. Their bent seems to follow the Tubes and tweak expectations with brains, oddball humor, and wit. A new bracing satire for our over-complicated, cynical times? Without a doubt, and not a fucking moment too soon.
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Heads Up: The Chicago Drag Kings will host their 'Invasion of the Booty Snatchers' at the Circuit Club Nov. 1. Falsies will be confiscated.
End note: A hearty 'Get Well' to Roy Horn of the queer-tinged Seigfried and Roy duo, who remains in critical condition. In an incident guaranteed to give the expression 'pussy whipped' a whole new meaning, he was mauled by one of his tigers during his Vegas show.
