Every hipster in all of Brooklyn is gathered at the Masonic Temple in Clinton Hill — still in scarfs and hoodies even though it’s finally warm.
The first band, Coyote, has a Primus-like feel, feels like the 90s except for its boost mobile sponsor-idge. This prog rock is getting old — so I just start staring at the increasingly growing crowd below, spotting beards on all the guys, except that circle of 12 year olds — wow I feel like I’m getting old, half the audience looks 15. And why does that guy have a sweater tied around his shoulders?
Next up Yaesayer, a watercolor shroomy van gogh-like projection swirls around behind this local fave. Looks like the 60s, but then i notice the boost mobile banners again. The lead singer writhes around with a religious fervor, saying “It’s the first night of the real tour, thank you for coming out in full force, It’s a big night,” drunk on the holy spirit of uber hip rock.
Now it’s a cotton candy poodle cloud swirling around behind them as the drums warm us up for the tribal feel of headliners Man Man. The singer comments on the surroundings when he says, “Secret society in here — masonic temple up in here, george washington is right up there.”
Yaesayer’s sound is at once nintendo futuristic and magical — Brian Jonestown Massacre but not as never ending with some Rush thrown in.
Before Man Man is ready to perform the audience is given a sanity test by the sound system blasting “Cocomo” not once, not twice but five times! Followed by “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” eight times folks! EIGHT times and increasingly louder each time. Shitty venue staff or intentional madness inducing antics!?
Besides the repetitive insanity, watching Man Man set their shit up is a gloriously whimsical experience, perhaps not unlike watching the seven dwarfs in the diamond mines. In addition to instruments, Man Man come with rubber snakes, a bowl of spoons, a rainbow feathered headdress — etc. etc. random shit.
This five piece musical explosion come on like crazed Lord of the Flies savages. The mania spurs the audience into a joyous dance-crazed sweat fest, and I can’t help but hope that the tiny girl that keeps getting buried in that hairy shirtless man-beast is at least his friend.
Dangerous feats of tambourine and knees wobbling the singer comes across guttural and animalistic, like TV on the Radio’s Tunde Adebimpe meets Tom Waits. SEXUAL. After he shook some keys into the mic – he left only to re-emerge in a glitter ensemble that would make Fischerspooner proud. A lot more full of riot than the last time I saw them in S.F. about two years ago.
This is definitely where the wild things are tonight.
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