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There's something wrong here. The Roundhouse is the kind of strictly utilitarian venue that's perfect for a hardcore act, pub group, or uni-band comp, but a Dresden Dolls show calls for something a bit more dramatic. I should be seeing the band in a theatre with huge red velvet curtains, gold-leaf detailing on the ceiling, and a few carnie types scattered about -- the kind who've watched Cabaret a few times too many.
Well, to be fair, there was plenty of that last group. I'd been warned that the Dolls attract a colourful crowd, and I wasn't disappointed -- the audience's PVC dresses and torn fishnets could be seen for miles around. The Dresden Dolls are the kind of act that cosmetics companies dream of: their performances -- not to mention the heat in the club's where they perform -- set rivers of hair dye and mascara flowing.
As the show began, we waded through tides of undead dandies only to find a stage filled with black-clad people getting their bodies painted. Amidst this craziness, the Red Paintings hammered out tropical art-rock, issuing anti-establishment war cries to augment their otherwise fairly standard offerings. This spectacle may have made sense in a more theatrical environment, but here, amongst the Coke machines and public service posters ("If you drink and drive, you're a bloody idiot"), it just looked trite. I think the performance was best summarized by an onlooker hereforeto known as Miss Death who said, "the body-painting drowned out the music."
Next up, gypsy-ish Seattle singer/songwriter Jason Webley led the crowd through what sounded remarkably like a set of sea shanties. This didn't last long, and we were soon drawn closer to the stage as the screaming began. Amanda Palmer and Brian Viglione, who together comprise the Dresden Dolls, had taken the stage.
We were only two songs in when screams from the girls (and quite a few of the boys) reached a fever pitch. Yes, Brian had already taken off his shirt. I've often felt a bit embarrassed to admit that I like the Dresden Dolls. I'm 100% sure "Coin Operated Boy" will be used as the basis for a high school dance routine sometime soon. They're that kind of band.
But, here I realized what truly attracts me: there's an exciting sense of emergent sexuality in their performance, one that justifies all the attached silliness. It's all about dressing up, trying out different roles, and playing at being dirty… or at least at being a little burlesque. I think this is why their oft-touted combination of punk and cabaret actually works: both genres express a form of mock-dangerous sexuality. (At the shows, they sell t-shirts bearing the slogan "Punk cabaret is freedom" though I'm not sure if they're being deliberately Orwellian). In any case, Brian is a Weimar-era street mime crossed with an underwear model. Amanda is part opium-addled Moulin Rouge dancer, part Elton John.
But screw the deconstructive theories; we came to rock! Or at least to perform loose interpretive dances. Unfortunately this ballroom was extremely crowded, and although she (the black-lace-clad Neo-Goth standing near us) took out a dozen or so people with her crazed waltz, I'm sure she had a brilliant night.
What impressed me most about the show was the choice of covers: Jacques Brel's "Amsterdam" was an inspired choice, and "War Pigs" went down a treat. I was a bit stunned, if also pleasantly surprised, to hear Fugazi get a workout as well. But, it was the Dolls' Bon Jovi cover that really took the cake. Jason Webley was dragged back on stage for a run through "Living on a Prayer", complete with a deconstructive narrative from the band in which they pointed out lyrical inconsistencies that I'm sure none before them had pondered.
And, when all is said and done, that's all I wanted. I mean, what more can you ask (or expect) from a post-Brechtian, punk-cabaret two-piece?
— 29 September 2006
