Skeletons and the Girl-Faced Boys

What do you do with music that sounds like people should dance to it, feels like people should dance to it, but doesn’t get anyone to dance? Blame the listeners? Blame the musicians? Blame the weather?

This was the dilemma that struck me after Skeletons and the Girl-Faced Boys finished their first rollicking number. That first tune, which began as a floor-tom build, grew into a four-part syncopated funk jam, and climaxed as a melodious pop tune with a chorus you couldn’t help but sing-along to, stirred even the skinniest-legged and tightest pantsed in the crowd. And yet, there everyone sat: relaxed, still, and silent in foldout metal chairs.

“This music should move you,” my disappointed friend whispered over my slouched shoulder, “literally.”

I couldn’t disagree. The musicians on stage were working hard; the chemical rush that electrified the crowd during the first song was powerful. Possibly the most powerful blast of music I’d heard all year. Why did no one stand? Why weren’t we thrown up into an ecstasy of frenetic gyrations? What was missing? What went wrong?

It wasn’t the first show ever that was lost for lack of audience energy, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. But how did a band delivering such total percussive pleasure get coupled with fans so stately, staid—or insecure?

Skeletons and the Girl-Faced Boys, one of those “up-and-comers” that has been around for a while, is both a man and a band. “Skeletons” is the moniker under which singer-songwriter Matt Mehlan—formerly of Oberlin, OH, currently of Brooklyn, NY—performs and records his solo materials. “The Girl-Faced Boys” are the band with which he often plays. Together, they have just released a compelling and eclectic album (Git, Skeletons’ fourth release though his first, officially, with all the members of The Girl-Faced Boys) and this night was meant to be the CD-release party for the album.

Behind Mehlan, the Girl-Faced Boys stand as a cohesive unit. With two playing percussion—one administering electronic noises and deep grooving beats along with toms, hi-hat and assorted cymbal-ish noises and the other standing, hitting more toms and more noisy things as yet unidentified - alongside a rhythm guitarist and a bassist, they produced a wall of sound that was, at times, overwhelming, but always intricate, interesting, and aesthetically impressive.

Mehlan, standing out front, while squeezing himself around the microphone stand, whispered, belted, and sang vocals, veering in and out of falsetto and smacking, with drumsticks, whatever was nearby (including, at times, a tambourine, a beat-up metal trash can, and the Girl-Faced Boys’s instruments.) If there was one thing Mehlan and his colleagues did not lack, it was stage presence. There was dancing that night—the guys threw themselves around in an almost-stylish, clown-like trance-dance, relishing the potent rhythmic underbelly of their tunes - but the dancing remained on stage. After the band belted the roaring first tune, and the crowd stayed seated, a wave of mutual exhaustion seemed to seep into the club. Even Mehlan’s dancing, and especially the dancing of the percussionists, began to look forced and to appear a bit too rehearsed.

To their credit, Skeletons and Girl-Faced Boys seemed to know how to put on a good show, even a great show—in theory. That it was their first night touring a brand new album of songs and that the set list was mostly new must have been a good part of the reason for the deflated oomph.

After the first few songs, their attempt at jump-starting a dance party, the band let their music relax into a long string of instrumental pieces. Without the heavy electronic bass beats, the funky drive was absent from the music. Without a deep back end to support them, even Mehlan’s catchy, soaring vocal lines began to sound contrived.

The intense vibe that should have connected the crowd to the stage—the vibe that was half-born during the opening of the concert—was lost and, though the beats stayed intricate and the percussive pop remained erratic throughout the rest of the show, the crowd never got involved. After a while, the band stopped offering such compelling energy.

In a way, it was love at first site, almost; puppy love that lacked substance. Maybe it was the fault of the too-hip New York crowd (did they expect the tight-assed and un-danceable?) Maybe we should just blame the oppressive summer humidity? Whatever the diagnosis, no matter how fresh the music sounded or how danceable the tunes should have been, the show walked where it could have run. Or, should I say, waltzed where it really should have done a headstand twirl with a no-hands dismount.