A couple of weeks back an Ogden-full of exceptionally smelly people (or at least mostly normal folks with a few smelling exceptionally) stared lovingly, sang along to, and mostly completely misunderstood what the fuck was going on. My choice of crude language is appropriate since the single most overheard comments from the crowd was "what the fuck is going on?" Besides the puzzled inquiries a few were verifiably freaked out. Most memorable was a kid sporting massive dinnerplated pupils screaming “Oh My God” incredulously while holding his face in disbelief. He raised his hands towards the heavens as if pleading for understanding. The cause of his outburst was a giant 2-man puppet flapping and kicking its giant arms and legs around. Everyone witnessed the insane, shocking, and fantastically creative, lo-fi-DIY show that by merely existing creates an argument for its classification: performance art or musical theater? Bizarre, over the top, et cetera, et cetera.

The show began without Kevin Barnes, at least not until he exited from a large covered crate in a grand spectacle involving marching buddhas carrying him in. Houdini style, Barnes escaped in time to get loose for the ahhing and sexed up cooing of "Id Engager". Later while segueing out of the sharply textured synth-funk playground of "So Begins Our Alabee", a schizo-dance arrangement developed in the form of the suggestively titled "Triphallus, To Punctuate!" Onstage a circus silhouette of shadows behind a screen simulated an oral sex scene. Quite provocative but hidden enough that few noticed, though it allowed me to ponder and question how any of this flies under the radar*. No moment more poignant to the last question than when Barnes sat in a huge oversized throne dressed like a priest while a luscious nun in black fishnets and high heels sexily slithered on the floor while doling out a foot rub. This particular scene capped by "St. Exquisite Confessions" whose opening lyrics crudely lament the exhaustion felt from fellating the dark underbelly of an entire city.

Of Montreal - "St. Exquisite Confessions"

In a nation that often seems obsessed in distracting itself with manufactured outrage and feigned distress you'd think someone out there in Blissfully Ignorant Land would be detectably upset with aspects of Of Montreal's war on subtlety. For anyone who heard Madonna's disparaging comments towards the eventual losing Vice Presidential candidate and considered it offensive, then what would they make of the small Yoda outfitted group donning John McCain masks? They menacingly offered pills, knives, and guns before leading Georgie Fruit to the gallows for a mock execution. Not unlike the story of a tree in an uninhabited forest, if the mainstream zeitgeist doesn't create a stir, nobody will hear it. If nobody hears it, it might as well not happen. I should note that it is plausible that I know nothing of what I'm running my mouth on, so let me just reassure that I would love nothing more than to be totally off the mark about our society and that it is much more sophisticated and accepting of weird art than the one we often like to caricature. *I would return to this line of questioning several times throughout the show, a rare question whose answer lies in the absurdity of the phony question itself.

Denver's one night run of Rock and Roll via off-Broadway via Colfax was a relentless production throughout with nary a dull moment. "She's a Rejector" was set in a dusty western saloon complete with a shootout; "For Our Elegant Caste" was illustrated as a metaphorically-heavy battle between a tiger and faceless shadow men. Followed by "Touched Something's Hollow," which is an Elton John homage of sweet confessional brooding jarringly performed with Barnes' voice breaking badly in the upper registers. "An Eluardian Instance" re-upped the crowd with all the unhinged exuberance one would expect from the bombastic track. Without getting into every detail of the sprawling onstage scenes, I'll skip ahead to "Gallery Piece" to mention how Barnes positioned human mannequins for a pose contest. Each "model" remained motionless until Barnes arranged them into sexually suggestive poses, much like a sexually curious child might do with dolls. The important thing to realize here is both are likely to be at the same level of sexual maturity. Georgie Fruit that is, or at least that is what Kevin Barnes would like us to believe.

The show as presented can be seen as a three part story. Starting with the confusing and troubling framework of Georgie Fruit's existence, it flutters about with the reckless actions of an extroverted Georgie, for instance the oral sex silhouette or the saloon gunfire. Simultaneously however, the deep disconnect between the Georgie the world sees and the intimate strife within were displayed in violent fashion, like when the tiger fought shadows and the disturbing hanging scene. On the way to his death the show dove into dark territory while sifting through all the baggage a gender-indecisive transsexual carries. After reaching the final nadir things start looking up for Georgie as he undergoes a kind of rebirth - acted onstage by literally stepping out of a coffin while covered in shaving cream. Whether it represents a clean slate of resurrection is unknown, though I'd bet on it. "Mingusings" all but surrenders to hope as he sung "our shit is only going to get better" before closing the verse with a warped, arguably encouraging outlook while worrying about relapse and the inevitable end, "I feel like the last time is going to be my final collapse".

I can reasonably argue that Barnes is cunning and in tune enough to his audience’s as much as his tortured artiste demeanor betrays virtues of valuable, lasting human connections, but the man never forgets his most important role as an entertainer. Back in June of this year when the album was announced as complete, the still basking in post-orgasmic glow Barnes posted a preemptive prognostication in a post on the band’s Myspace page:

"i worry that some people are going to misunderstand it. there's nothing i can do about that though, now, it is done. anyways,i didn't create it to give people something to like. i created it because i was compelled to. [Of Montreal Myspace]

Fair enough.

You can nail the guy for hogging space on the pretentious train, but in regards to self-awareness he's not lost an ounce of perceptiveness. That point driven home by the way the show ended. A rollicking one-two punch of massively popular covers was like a comforting blanket after the preceding spectacle. Franz Ferdinand's "Take Me Out" and Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit" capped off a crazy night in which boundaries of many were pushed, but by ending with uber-popular, recognizable songs Of Montreal mitigated the risk of leaving fans with an uncomfortable taste swirling around their mouths. Instead they rocked in a moshpit like it was 1992.

PS – I must mention the masked AK-47 wielding terrorists that overtook the stage as Barnes sang the lyrics "we'll have bizarre celebrations” (from “Wraith Pinned To The Mist (And Other Games)”). It was as if to say 'look at how absurd this all is', especially you stupid terrorists.

[Icy Demons]

Opening band, the confusing Icy Demons were not good. I was immediately turned off with their painful monotonous singing. And then it was repeated on every song. I don't like publicly ragging though, so I'll stop.

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