Bedtime Stories for Monsters - The Residents Show
I have never seen The Residents play. A fan told me they hadn't been in DFW since 1987, for that matter. I had enjoyed them a lot in college but haven't really listened to anything new since, well, the late 80s. But I knew I"d not pass up this opportunity of them on tour. And I am so incredibly glad I went. What an experience! They're basically an avant-garde visual/auditory art type thing. Their songs have always been creepy, discomfiting and unusual, often a sort of bizarre commentary on the foibles and insanities of humans. Last night was no exception. As a friend Randy said, they didn't play "the hits". No 'Santa Dog', nor 'Constantinople', arguably their best known song. I recognized 'Semolina', as did he, but that was it. I found, throughout the show, that I was glad about this. The stage was set up with a faux fireplace and oversized couch, to which the "singer" (I'd prefer the term performer) would retire in between songs. He was dressed as a sort of creepy old man/clown and he'd rub his head in mock exhaustion. The two players had all black on, with sequined tux-and-tails coats and some black material over their heads with wires or springs coming out and goggles. You could see no one's face, as is the norm. As the songs unfolded and Randy, the performer, would dance jerkily and horridly for effect, I started getting a growing sense of unease, just as their songs made me feel in college. He had some sort of video/digital player device he'd show on the three round screens, playing films pre-made, holding it, moving it from screen to screen, tilting it back and forth. These films had demented looking characters telling the most awful tales, stories of disaster, sadness, horror and madness. I found myself vaguely repulsed and yet drawn toward these characters, feeling a terrible sort of empathy for their lives. There was everything from the man whose quadriplegic friend stayed out in his garage. As the storyteller went to smoke a cigarette out in front of said garage, he didn't notice the spilled gasoline can there and upon flicking his cigarette butt, ignited it and the whole garage, including aforementioned friend. The poor fellow's brain wasn't quite right after that and he "saw" his friend, tormenting him thenceforth with horrible commercial jingles, having words relating to the event. Or perhaps the lady who, as a little girl, joked with her mother by hiding and grabbing her ankles as she passed, but inadvertently making her lose her balance once. When mom fell, she took the pasta pot with her, indelibly burning the shapes of little xmas tree pasta all over her swollen, now-scarred face. Or Randy's terrors involving the "mirror people". These stories unfolded, one after the other, and by the end of the two-hour show, I was enthralled and completely saddened it was over. It was, as the title suggests, like listening to bedtime stories for monsters. Children would have nightmares upon the subconscious memory of these tales, but monsters might feed and grow upon such misery. I think I grew and fed.