Kid Congo Powers: We all know he’s a living legend, has cool first, middle, and last names, and possesses a musical pedigree (The Gun Club, The Cramps, Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds, Black Oak Arkansas) that would turn Jack White green with envy. So tell us something we don’t know, huh? Well, how about this: Kid once shot a man for insulting his mustache. Which is toothpick thin and tres chic and frankly, I’d have probably shot the bastard too.
Okay, so I made that last bit up. But it could be true; Powers has been at the epicenter of the freak rock scene since his days as an LA glam kid at Rodney Bingenheimer’s English Disco—that legendary home away from home for the likes of D. Bowie, M. Bolan, and The Sweet—and he’s done more living since then than most people could manage in 15 reincarnations. He’s toured with The Fall and been in a Wim Wenders film and lived in London, Berlin, NYC, and very briefly, Mars—and that’s hardly scratching the surface.
Powers has done the “lone gunman” bit—his 2005 LP Solo Cholo is one wonderfully warped slab of “Sophisticated Boom Boom”—but since 2006 he’s been the front man for Kid Congo and The Pink Monkey Birds (i.e., Powers on guitar and vocals, Kiki Solis on bass, Ron Miller on drums, and Mark Cisneros on guitar), a most excellent name he swiped straight from one Ziggy Fucking Stardust. Like they say, once a glam kid, always a glam kid.
Kid Congo and The Pink Monkey Birds produce some of the sleaziest, greasiest, swampiest, and most swaggering—to say nuthin’ of funny—surf/Chicano/psychedelic/rockabilly-tinged garage rock you’ll ever hear. I swear, somebody raised this kid wrong—really, really wrong. It’s either that or Washington, DC’s most dapper dresser has managed to mentally tune into a radio station from someplace far, far away—Pluto, say, or some psychedelic pueblo down Paraguay way where everybody tunes their guitarras eléctrica to the key of far freaking out.
KC and the Birds have released four LPs since 2006, including the brand-spanking new Haunted Head, which features a slew of me(n)tallic TKOs such as the swingin’ garage shouter “Killer Diller” (at long last, a paean to Phyllis Diller!), the groovy and feedback-frenzied “Su Su,” the weird and organ-drenched “Let’s Go,” and the bizarro blues blur “Loud and Proud”—which I swear includes a chainsaw solo—to say nothing of the moody and hilariously macabre title track.
Anyway, Kid Congo and The Pink Monkey Birds played the Black Cat on October 19, and I almost missed it, thanks to my so-called friends. My birthday is October 20, and I was already running late when I answered a knock on the door to discover a dominatrix they’d bought me as a gag (literally) gift. Before I could say no can do Lady Pain (her name) had kicked me in the balls and handcuffed me, and how I managed to wriggle out my narrow bathroom window with my hands cuffed behind my back—while Lady Pain, who’d torn off my left shoe, applied some exquisitely painful bastinado—I’ll never know.
Lucky for me, I made it to the show—paying the cabbie was no easy feat—just in time to catch openers Cane & The Sticks. I generally skip the opening act because I’m a rotten lazy bastard, but I’ve seen Cane & The Sticks before, and they’re one of DC’s best unsigned acts. (They’re readying a single for release, so folks will finally be able to listen to them in the comfort of home or prison cell.) C&TS include Peter Hayes on guitar, Arthur Noll (also of Dischord’s 50-chord-changes-per-minute wonders Alarms and Controls) on bass, and Liz DeRoche on skins.
Cane & The Sticks opened with “10 Foot Pole,” an oversized shot of pure adrenalin that opened with a big drum flourish, was fuzzier than a Muppets character, and made a big din thanks to Hayes’ great slurred guitar riff and Noll’s heavily distorted bass. Another highlight included “Baby’s Brain,” a fast and monstrously noisy tune beneath which lurked a very catchy pop song. Noll’s right hand was a blur on bass, DeRoche provided excellent backing vocals, and Hayes’ guitar solo was a thing of beauty and a joy forever.
The punkish “Jump Off The Boat” was primo as well, what with its propulsive beat—De Roche and Noll nailed the tune to the floor the way the Romans nailed Christ to the Cross—dual vocals, and very catchy chorus. And I loved the big distorto-feedback interlude as much as I loved Hayes’ surprisingly clean solo. “Can’t See The Way” was both heavy and fast—in general, C&TS had a much heavier sound than the last time I saw them, and they wear it well—thanks largely to Noll’s distorted buzz bomb bass and DeRoche’s usual Bonham-style dinosaur stomp.
As for closer “Flower Bones,” I wish it could adopt me. It opened quietly with Hayes’ vocals, alternated between soft and loud, featured yet another big catchy guitar riff as well as some marvelous speed bass by Noll, and at one point had both Hayes and DeRoche humming—we need more humming in rock—only to end in a cataclysmic end of the world caterwaul. The trio also played the very punk “Feel Alright,” the heavy, feedback-laden “Bounced,” “Mind Stop”—in which bass and guitar melded into a fantastic blur—and “Freak of Nature,” which highlighted Noll and DeRoche’s lockstep mind-meld. Before Cane & The Sticks went on a friend told me they were the “the most exciting shit” she’d seen in a long time, and turns out she was right.
Following a brief hiatus, Kid Congo and The Pink Monkey Birds played a set heavy with songs off Haunted Head, and also tossed in some tasty Gun Club classics. First Powers appeared on stage alone and played some spooky feedback guitar. Then he was joined by the band and they played “Conjure Man,” which featured a great moody groove, lots of reverb, and Kid talk-singing in a voice redolent with echo. They then kicked into Bachman Turner Overdrive with The Gun Club’s immortal “She’s Like Heroin To Me,” which charged along like Custer to his doom and was great, great, great, what with its gigantic guitar riffs and Powers’—who was dapper as ever in a fifties’ black biker’s cap, vintage high school letter sweater, and pink shirt—echo-laden vocals.
Powers introduced the next tune by saying “The real question is: What if the real killer was Phyllis Diller?” At which point the band dove into the very fast and drum-driven “Killer Diller,” which featured great group vocals, a psychedelic breakdown, and Powers singing “Rock’n’roll is here to stay.” It was followed by the lightning fast “Su Su,” another salute to a John Waters-type heroine, namely B-actress Susan Tyrell of Fat City fame. “Su Su” boasted an irresistible head-bobbing groove, smashing guitar by Cisneros, and Power’s singing, “You are a celebration of the cheap and tawdry” and, very campily, “Oh yeah, Su Su!”
The moody, crawling “Dance Me Swamply” boasted a very loud and catchy pop opening and a fantastic chorus (“Dance me swamply/Dance me sweet/Never let me go”), mighty drums, a dark guitar riff that Cisneros played throughout the song, and Powers talk-singing such Dylanesque non sequiturs as “Sit right down and stand on your head.” “Dance Me Swamply” would make for the perfect romantic slow dance song at a zombie high-school sock hop. Just imagine all the hickeys!
Powers is the King of Non Sequiturs, asking before the next song, “Who’s got the rubber chicken, that’s what I want to know?” He then announced the band had a new dance, and the Monkey Birds burst into the very herky-jerky “Loud and Proud,” with its cool rockabilly guitar riff by Cisneros—one ace guitarist—and anthemic chorus, with Kid shouting “Loud and proud!” over and over while the band did the shake and bake behind him. Next up was the excellent “I Can’t Find My Mind,” a big walking blues that had Powers singing “Everything is fine/But I can’t find my mind,” then barking, “Let’s walk!” at which point the band went into a snarling instrumental passage that included some very far-tweaking-out guitar by the dissonance-loving Powers.
Powers preceded “The Rad Lord’s Return,” a mind-melting psychedelic instrumental, with a drink of water, then said, “You wanna be rehydrated when the Revolution comes.” Good advice, for sure. As for “The Rad Lord’s Return,” it was so groovy I wanted to drop acid and jump off a roof, because it made me feel like I could fly. It was meaty, beaty, berserk, and bouncy, and all I wrote in my notebook to describe it was “So fucking cool.” Some rock critic I am. Next up was the mid-tempo “Haunted Head,” with its giant but very basic drumbeat, 1940s werewolf-movie guitar riff, and addictive groove. “What’s inside your haunted head?/Are you alive or are you dead?/Are you kissin’ and a huggin’/Are you pushin’ and a shovin’?” sang the band on the chorus, after which Cisneros played a speedfreak guitar solo.
“Lose Your Mind” boasted one very twisted beat—like Bo Diddley on a boatload of strong acid—as well as a couple of psych-ward-weird instrumental breakdowns, echo-heavy vocals by Powers, and enough sheer sonic power to send Screaming Jay Hawkins to Venus, whatever that means. Meanwhile, “Rare As The Yeti” was big, loud, fast—and very, very catchy, and had the folks up front doing a dance I can only call The Scurvy. This song would be a No. 1 hit in a rational world, what with Powers singing “You’re rare as the Yeti/Not quite as pretty” while Cisneros played a very bizarre guitar solo that sounded like what you would get if you taught a real yeti to play the axe.
The unwashed “Floor Length Hair”—one of my personal faves—followed. With its fifties’ “shoo bop shoo bop” and fast, loud, and hard groove, to say nothing of Cisneros’ shaggy as the cartoon character guitar, this would make the perfect tune for Altamont High School’s annual prom, which generally ends with kids on reds beating one another with pool cues. I especially loved the way Powers signed off on the song with David Bowie’s “Just watch me now!” Like I said before, once a glam kid, always a glam kid.
“Bubble Trouble” was my night’s highlight. From its opening bass and neat-o hand claps it morphed into total controlled mayhem, and was a bona fide noise rocker. Meanwhile Powers produced some spooky whistling outer space noises on a little gadget I’m too dumb to know the name of, and what you had in general was a shoot out at the LSD Corral—with a groove, no less.
Powers and Company then played the great Gun Club number “Jack on Fire,” with its gargantuan guitar riffs and great chorus (“Hey, hey, I’m a Jack On Fire/Hey, hey, your lips kiss Jack on Fire”), to say nothing of the way the band quieted just in time for Powers to sing those immortal words, “Then I will fuck you until you die,” after which the band kicked back into overkill. Next up was the very punk “I Don’t Like,” which had Powers barking out the lyrics and sounded like a song for go-go dancers who have had way, way too much crystal meth. (One of those dancers was the woman next to me, who leaped about like somebody being attacked by a swarm of hornets.) Then came a slow interlude with Powers playing single notes to amazing effect, after which the PMBs shifted back into warp speed with Powers singing at his most frenetic.
The band closed with the great “LSDC,” which opened with Powers going, “Ooh, ah, Ooh ah, Ooh ah,” then “You are now in LSDC,” at which point the drums and guitar kicked in. “LSDC” featured spoken lyrics by Powers, a savage repetitive guitar riff by Cisneros (at the risk of sounding hyperbolic, it may well be the greatest riff in the history of the world), and best of all an irresistibly danceable groove that went on and on until it descended into that mysterious hole in the earth where Charles Manson and Family intended to wait out the war that would leave them rulers of the world.
Powers and Company then returned to play an encore, the Gun Club’s “For The Love of Ivy.” A loud-quiet number, Powers spoke the lyrics while Cisneros delivered up those industrial-strength power chords that make the song so great. Powers then played one fabulously dissonant solo, followed by a big psychedelic breakdown and the freakout-tent guitar meltdown that ended the song.
I haven’t seen a better show in years, swear to the voodoo dolls that Powers likes to keep around his house. And may they strike me down with John Denver fever if I’m lying. Powers’ music defies description, he’s doing something nobody else is turned on and tuned in enough to do, and like I say, he’s got a killer mustache. That makes for greatness in my book, and he’s an amiable fellow and great raconteur to boot. Just don’t insult his mustache, or he might just shoot you down like a rabid dog.
SOLO PHOTO: MELL TURBO
