The Planet The
By Laura Marrich
Sunday, Nov. 11; the Launchpad (21-and-over), $4: If helmets are the new mullets, then The Planet The is the new medium in which to spastically dance while sporting one.
The Planet The will draw its audience from the hipster electro-clash set here in our humble burg, though the music they produce draws on something that seems much more primitive and experimental than, say, Peaches. The hypersexuality of the genre, however, will be no less intact at this show.
The Planet The's stripped-down instrumentation relies mostly on a computerized, almost accordion-sounding keyboard, slices of messed-up superbright guitar and a spare click 'n' clack live drum track; sometimes they're all together, sometimes not. Songs start and stop with irreverence. Yet despite the abruptness of most of their material, the songs manage to maintain an air of danceability. Not an easy feat.
Meanwhile, for vocals, two boys coo and shriek like drag queens starting shit in a closet-sized dressing room. Imagine, if you will, T-Rex, The Makeup and Devo engaged in an orgasmic knife fight—languishing in shared falsetto freak-outs, bobbing in and out of near-violent earnestness to absurd vocal chaos. Or picture it this way: You're a hormonal young thing wandering through a hall of mirrors at the fair. Someone kills the lights and hits a strobe for 15 or 20 seconds. Everyone dances. The lights come back on, and off you go again, wobbly kneed down the corridor.
Next time, it's gonna be powdered wigs.
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