Mmm… «neon lights» and «fishnet tights»… some of my favourite things… As is
Team Plastique's live show. In a year that saw your correspondent witness the mighty
Michael Gira spitting and stomping on an Australian mountaintop; fly to Brussels and back just to be hypnotised by
Larkin Grimm's magickal mouth; to London and back for the sole purpose of experiencing the legendary
Fall; and Oslo gigs by the likes of
Animal Collective,
the Dodos,
Vetiver and not least
the Walkmen, it was to be Team Plastique's performance at Sjokoladefabrikken in Oslo on the 28th of November that opened the long-clogged floodgates of bliss inside this blogger… We here at Toilet Guppies are loathe to sum up the year that's been, not least with pointless lists, but this was most assuredly
the live experience of 2009. (Only
Chopper Read & Anal Cunt's cancelled gig in Oslo could possibly have surpassed it…)
Say what you will of the whole Berlin electropunk/-clash/ -whatever movement, it reinvigorated rock at a time when it had become as humourless, self-important and conformist as the moody teen demographic literally buying into it. So anybody with a funny bone and a boner should be forever grateful to
Peaches. But although Toilet Guppies would never—
NEVER!—say a bad word about the only Peach with a hole in the middle, the Def Leppard schtick of her live show (although funny to those who got the references and the academically Feminist irony) never quite delivered on the raw emotional promise of «Fuck the Pain Away». (And
don't get me started on the excruciatingly cutesy, aerobics-heavy, girls-just-wanna-have-fun light comedy show of the otherwise kick-ass, ball-breaking
Le Tigre.) Enter Australian expat Berliners
Team Plastique, for those of us who like our electropunk with a slice of
Yoko Ono rather than
Joan Jett… interactive absurdist spectacle rather than distant stadium rock poses… Team Plastique are to Peaches or Le Tigre what
the Rolling Stones were to
the Beatles and what
the Stooges were to
the Stones… what
SWANS were to
Sonic Youth…
Suicide to
Kraftwerk…
Peaches to
Lady GaGa! Dear reader, Team Plastique
delivers.
Now, certain people are singlemindedly oriented towards happiness. To achieve it, and to keep it. (You know the ones: they arrive at the club with their pretty friends and, regardless of the toxicity in their bloodstream, dance and squeal with glee and have «good, clean fun».) For some, there's a simplicity to this state of mind—it reduces an otherwise complicated existence to an (in a sense) timeless moment, unmolested by worry. (Worry being what carries over from the past, and what projects us into the future.) But such people don't really
flee into the present moment; the simplicity they somehow manage to maintain in their lives—in their minds—doesn't give them cause for escapism. They're lucky to be more or less happy, and they don't feel the urge and certainly don't consciously consider pursuing anything but the Happy Medium. To those fortunate enough to be largely spared the wretchedness of bad DNA or shit circumstances, there's enjoyment on this side, and suffering on that. Cut and dry!
But there's a secret, ineffable, liminal
something to partying, besides joy. In fact, joy has little to do with it. Joy is innocent, and there's nothing innocent about thrill. (Although there
is enjoyment in there.)
This is something certain dope fiends and sex maniacs intuit, and it's what the song below, by electropunk cabaret trio
Team Plastique, sparks up in the otherwise only faintly flickering synapses of a jaded, old hedonist trying to put into words what his brain sneaked past his thoughts:
It's what grinning people who think they dance exceptionally well on E's—or people who one day suddenly throw back a batch of magic mushrooms on a whim, only to laugh heartedly and without any existential dread whatsoever, or even a single wave of panic for the entire eight hours—will never know. It's the twilight rush from knowing, when braving a risk (whether it be a physical, biochemical, medical or a moral one), «This might not end well.» It's an unformed thought, sweeping the bottom of your consciousness like a feeling that's not been given a word yet, spreading across your body between your skin and flesh, making you cold to the touch, numb and electric at the same time. It's the boost of meth, it's the fear of AIDS, it's lust, it's transgression, it's adrenaline. It's pure instinct making you want to do things you know you need
not to do. It's the pang of delight that accompanies the very moment you decide to go with whatever flow it is that just led you past the point of no return of some unsavoury act you know is wrong (and maybe a little disgusting), and which will blossom into fully fledged guilt, but that's later. For now, you're
alive, and that's about as clearly and concisely as I can put it.
Like at any decent party, there's
fun in Team Plastique's music. There's humour, there's sex. (My God, is there sex!) Hell, at their not-to-be-missed shows there are even pineapples, massacred and thrust mercilessly upon the audience… There are combinations that confuse you, with a pink-haired woman walking in the audience telling everyone she loves them while a kabuki-faced bag lady lies seemingly lifeless onstage. (The ol' Def Leppard'n'Feminist politics it ain't!)
Listen to the disharmonic guitar and synths on «Game Show Lights», and tell me there's not an undercurrent here—the aural equivalent to
the party animal's determined yet not clearly formulated intent to self-destruct… while having fun.
By way of fun. And the vocals… well, for the verses it's a bit like the mumbled fantasies of a decadent model, only 14 and already jaded as she's seen it
all, absentmindedly masturbating with not even her horniness up to alleviating the boredom… Ah, ennui!
Not to get too high fallutin' here, but if entering the club you feel like you want to lose yourself, this song reminds you that not only blue-eyed joy can provide transcendence. There are other avenues, whether it be the road of excess leading to the palace of wisdom, or just another royal road to ruin:
Toilet Guppies is dismayed at the news of the passing of one of the all-time greatest guitar players the world has had the pleasure (sometimes terror!) to hear. Besides playing the six-strings like no one else (combining sultry sexiness with urgent violence in a way that'd surely make Georges Bataille gush with admiration), Rowland Howard also possessed a voice and singing style unlike any other—a spitting, almost regurgitating sing-speak full of loathing, dejection or lung-black humour that would've been out of tune, had tune only had anything to do with it, and which perfectly conveyed the intense sincerity he seemed incapable of not channeling while performing. His almost deadpan delivery made him über-cool, while the evident sadness just cutting through the drawl provided substance. Crucially, the humour of his words ensured he never came across—or was—pretentious. His quivering voice and shaking hands (I thought he had Parkinson's, not liver cancer) didn't get in the way of his playing one of the best gigs at All Tomorrow's Parties on Mt. Buller, Australia last January, almost one year ago.
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