The Automatik

El Matador
January 10, 2004

“The Paleolithic Era is over! Let’s embrace the dawn of the Iron Age!”

So quoth Mr. Quintron at Saturday evening’s final show at El Matador.

Mr. Quintron was great, as usual. His mildly insane stage setup now features a gong, a giant megaphone, and a front car grill with working headlights (the latter of which is attached to his organ, natch). Miss P’s puppet show wasn’t the best I’d ever seen, but it would probably have been much more enjoyable had the hatchet-faced stripper next to me not been shouting “I hate termites! BOO!” the entire time. One thing I detest about Quintron fans (and most fans in general) is how they must loudly proclaim their “love” for a band via a screaming commentary that they mistakenly feel proves that they are in on the joke, that they’re more worthy than the rest of us, and that they are the biggest sycophants on the planet.

She added insult to injury when she crawled up on the stage and shimmied away what was left of her dignity. The crowd cheered wildly for Mr. Q, but the look on her face told us she thought the applause was all for her strip-tease shenanigans. At least it left me with a minor epiphany.

I have decided I have negative desire to go out to any club or bar in the Quarter again. For one thing, everyone in New Orleans seems dead set on inflicting second-hand smoke induced lung cancer on innocent victims. I apologize to those friends of mine who smoke, but I would rather not die hooked up to a ventilator, thank you. There were two different people who were not only dangling their cigarettes in my face, but also blowing the smoke in my direction. My eyes were still burning as of bedtime Sunday night and I feel like I’ve been to the seventh circle of Hell.

It’s not just the smoking, though. I suppose it was folly on my part not to expect that every hipster in the Southeast would be venturing forward on shitty bikes and stickered Vespas to catch the last gasp of the second most modish club in New Orleans. It wasn’t so much that they said or did anything to give themselves away; the attitude in the bar was as thick as the cigarette smoke. But like any New Orleans club show, you’ve got to give props to those whose freakishness transcends mere pretension and crosses into the stuff of which folktales are made.

And what makes a legend most? There were two different guys dressed in a bizarre combination of Civil War and Old West styles. Granted, only one was actually wearing a suit, a hat, and a goatee; the Gestalt of his attire was eerily reminiscent of a young Colonel Sanders.

There was also The Prince of Darkness, who looked like a combination of Pris from Blade Runner and Twiggy Ramirez with better hair. I actually liked this guy’s look and I’m sorry I didn’t get to snap a photo of him or the young Colonel.

Another fashionista�let’s call him “Mullet Pompadour”�had a jet black, Brylcreemed �do which was a surprisingly appealing combination of Bryan Ferry circa 1970 and your average redneck. The spitcurls were a nice touch.

I was particularly fond of the gal whom I dubbed “Romanian Princess” who looked like the romantic lead in a silent film. Think Theda Bara, but also think of a black felt hat encrusted with cowry shells and red flowers, a mirrored and embroidered Indian style backless shirt, upper arm bracelets, facial henna tattoos, and a tremendous red coral choker. She was actually quite pretty and seemed friendlier than I would have expected from someone of such royal lineage.

Although we were packed into the place like soccer moms at a Dr. Phil show taping, in general, the crowd was well behaved and didn’t push or shove too much until the second or third encore. Even the requisite snake charmer wasn’t poking out any eyes with her elbows.

However, there was a heckler in the crowd. He bellowed “I LOVE THE DRUM BUDDY!” and “IS THAT ALL YOU GOT?” incessantly, then snickered and hit his friends on the shoulder in that hyuk hyuk shit-stirrer way that eight-year-old boys emulate. I speculate that there must be a factory deep in the earth’s core that churns out these trolls because, without fail, there is one at every show.

In retrospect, I feel like it was a TV show about a hipster concert with all the clich�d posturing that was going on. It could be that I’m jaded in my old age, but none of this stuff truly surprises me any more. My reaction is more like sad, but amused, resignation. Even the standouts (The Colonel, The Prince, and The Princess) felt lackluster and unoriginal in their attempts at being the biggest freakshow. The Iron Age that Mr. Quintron lauded is not going to be that different from what we have now: cheap attempts at postmodernism that fall flat after struggling under the weight of their own pretentiousness.

If you’re wondering why the bulk of this show review is about the crowd, it’s not because I’m superficial. Music, despite RIAA propaganda and skyrocketing CD prices, does not charge a fee for losing yourself in its divine liberty. But the huddled masses aren’t yearning to breathe free; they’d rather breathe smoke and drown out the music with self-aggrandizing posturing.