Turbonegro, Webster Hall, October 12, 2005
The tone for the evening was set when the midget came out. Which was at the
very beginning. Ominous minor keys droned and strobe lights pulsed like the
veins of a junkie before the stage lights dilated and revealed a midget,
fronting the group while dressed in a miniature version of lead singer Hank
Von Helvete‚s outfit. I'm not passing judgment on this, either positively
or negatively. It was simply the kind of show where a midget coming out
dressed in a relatively tiny fur cape and amount of face paint was pretty
much required. Anything less would have left a hole the size of a wee
Norwegian in the collective heart of New York City.
Yes, it was a raucous, deathpunk/pop metal/black pop night at New York
City's Webster Hall this past Wednesday when Norway's Turbonegro played to a
packed house. Now in their second iteration after a brief break-up in the
early part of this decade, Turbonegro were in town to promote their latest
CD, "Party Animals." Conventional wisdom (i.e., PitchforkMedia), holds that
they are somewhat lacking in their second coming. There seems to be
something to this, a priori; their reunion was, after all, precipitated by
the post-breakup stateside success of their Norwegian albums, 1997's Ass
Cobra and 1999's Apocalypse Dudes. Faced with encouraging US sales figures,
something that can elude even the sugariest of Europe‚s bubblegum pop,
Turbonegro thrust aside their self-perpetuated claims of drug and behavioral
excesses to pump out one, then another, record of what they like to call
"deathpunk," a sort of hair metal and hard rock amalgam that dares you to
call it ironic even as balloons rain from the ceiling and the lead singer
asks you sneeringly if your favorite show is "Friend" or "Seinfeld," then
tells you his is "Anal Sex in the City." How in the world could a band who
unbreaks-up just to sell more records possibly be in it for real?
As far as I can tell, they are. While there was a slight dip in energy from
the band and crowd in the middle section of the concert, this is hardly a
fatal flaw. Find me a show that aspires to keep the audience mindlessly
thrashing around for over an hour that DOESN‚T drag somewhere in the middle,
and I'll. . . well, I'd be very impressed, I suppose. Let's be honest,
here, as well: I was totally suckered in by the band‚s theatrics. The
combination of makeup, indescribably stereotypical mincing around by
keyboardist Pal Pot Pamparius, pulsing strobes, falling balloons and fake 4
Zillion Dollar Bills featuring the likeness of guitar player Rune Rebellion,
even the font on the monolithic banner bearing their name which hung behind
the band during the show, all spoke of a spectacle and singularity that is
all-too-often missing from the endless parade of interchangeable indie acts
which slouch about New York City's stages on a daily basis.
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