She took the tablecloth down to the sea and called it fashion! Jun 17, 2012

by Eric Pitsenbarger

Expecting Bad News from the Government is the driving force behind a life of listless thrust. The black core that rots any sprout of optimism, the obvious outcome: a world of live as if your gonna die tomorrow. There's a weird Buddhist overlay here as nihilism and living in the present moment interchange under the smashing drums and nerve gnashing guitar. Richard Lefebvre and Erika Mayfield exchanging taunts and jabs of encouragement, wallowing in the gloom of glamorous punk shit while looking all the dark superstars of the underground. A projected skitter of 'throw-away' documentary follows them in their appetite for destruction. Erika makes Debby Harry look like a xerox copy. She's so pretty in pink as she steels a jacked up sand blasted derby car, tires smoking to high heaven. 


Embracing Vanessa DeWolf's Unrehearsed Ensemble of chaos theory is a color palette of light. Day-glow, primary, glowing and projected that give nice weight and assurance to the caterwauling randomness washing up everywhere. Dots and dashes to the splashy mess, a framework around what's roiling and bumping around. The composition of flotsam therein, each member maintaining a running struggle of emotion, projecting, scattering playful detail like radioactive confetti; the effect of collage and the process of choosing your focus while coaxed to find context. The periphery is just as important as any bulls-eye. Humor comes from too much frosting on the sugar sweet cake, of being sat upon and tickled until you piss yourself. Uncomfortable and delightful. 


Cacophony for 8 Players erupts with a klaxon of shredding horn. Is a surrealist dreamscape of sound and chess piece figures. The direction of smoke as it wafts between currents. Dark and moody, effecting a reverence of eastern influence, Ulrich's long beard pointing to rattling boxes. The deteriorating grey web of sculpture turning, a splash of green on swaying hips, writhing muscled back, catapulting dynamo and fractured electronics effect an hallucinogenic mind melt. Dense uncertainties pushed by cacophony. Confusing something that is nothing. It's like watching your fevered feelings take form through broken glass.


And finally, in stark contrast to all the night's dada terpsichore: Waxie Moon appears in a cloud of red tulle and proceeds to take it all off. It's not confusing at's all gonna come off, but it's in the road trip to nakedness we revel. Drama and nuance directed full frontal. Sharp, elegant and high theatrics. A red sparkly puppet! Gleeful sofa bouncing! Matching flesh colored back-up dancers in a tightly choreographed smirk. The pay off is a standing O for Waxie. I need a shower!