Here's the scene: It's about 8:30 in the evening on a Monday night at a local pizza joint. I've just enjoyed a slice and a cup of hot tea, though beer and wine are available. I'm standing looking at the stage, waiting for the first act of a two-act music bill to come on to the tiny stage.
Nicky Click, though she's from Olympia, easily could pass for a 20-year-old College of Santa Fe student, clad as she is in a
t
hrift-store-adjusted-by-some-amatuerish-sewing
pant and sweater outfit. It is odd and incongruous, this outfit, with a shabby
temp worker feel set off in relief by her high heels. She may be making a statement about working in office cubicles and the political implications of capitalist oppression. Or maybe she's just got interesting taste.
Either way, as she begins her songs, it's clear Nicky Click is…interesting, period. Her music is provided by a slim laptop computer, which she must awkwardly fiddle with between songs. As she sings, she scoots back and forth in a way that's simultaneously geeky and sexy, neither of which are affectations. Slight hip swivels and shy grins.
And the music: Maybe if Bjork had grown up in Washington state instead of the exotic locale of Iceland, she would have chosen this aesthetic. As the laptop pours out electronic melodies built of samples and keyboards, Click sings odd little songs in an odd little voice, understated but not weak, a whisper here and a soulful wail there, as she dances in her shuffling, knock-kneed kind of way.
And that's just the first act.
Sounds interesting doesn't it? So where were you? It may not have been everyone's cup of tea, but certainly Nicky Click's performance proved a stimulating event for a chilly Monday night in Santa Fe. Yet, as I looked around the room, there were six other people who had slapped down their five bucks to catch Click and headliners Scream Club.
Six
. In a town of over 60,000 people.
We here in Santa Fe have a special affinity for pissing and moaning. The constant refrain of "There's nothing to do here" echoes off the foothills like the moan of a spooky, bored, hipster ghost. But two points: 1) I call bullshit: There's plenty to do here and, 2) If we're all so damn bored, why do we still live here?
Granted, it's not like this was the best concert anyone has ever attended. It was tough to guage the audience reaction because, in an odd way, it's easier to read the emotions of 60 people as opposed to six, but, while Click held me enraptured and laser-focused on the stage, Scream Club's rap show-also aided by computer-sourced beats-proved more hit or miss. Scream Club consists of two MCs, Cindy Wonderful and Sarah Adorable, whose stage personas are in love. It's pretty convincing-I think they're in love in real life too, but these days with all the irony and the stage realities and the
artistic statements
, it's hard to know what's true.
In any case, Wonderful and Adorable write witty, tight rhymes, tinged with innuendos about sex toys and queer romance and being "a switch hitter." The pair sports haircuts that are inversions of the other: One's a wide mohawk, the other a Flock of Seagulls shaved-down-the-middle kind of deal.
The thing is, Scream Club is cool and interesting, but not as cool and interesting as you'd think they'd be. Or as you'd wish them to be. On some songs, their flow is smooth and rock hard; other times, it's a touch amateurish. The duo's best song, "You Belong To Me," naughty as it is, is an ode to love, and has all the elements of a good pop rap hit: a catchy, sing-song chorus, hyper-fast rapped verses and lyrics that conjure the Beastie Boys circa
License to Ill
had, of course, the Beastie Boys been idealistic, switch-hitting queers in love at that point in their career.
From there, it goes a touch downhill, to the point I would give Scream Club a B rather than an A on their musical report card-still a group worth seeing.
But even more noteworthy than their music is what Scream Club represents: a cutting-edge, weird, funny, fun, intriguing duo that deigned to set foot in Santa Fe, where "there's nothing to do," and tried to give us something to do. And, uh, six people decided to do it.
Which is par for the course. This past weekend in Santa Fe, the Lensic screened the two good Godfather movies at a price lower than that of a conventional theater. Former local Bett Williams, also witty, wild and weird, gave a reading and was joined by a performance artist whose repertoire included being drenched in water a la
Flashdance
. Premiere local hip-hop DJ King George spun at a fancy restaurant. As I write this, I am torn because I plan on swinging by the Sleeping Dog Tavern to work on my Texas Hold 'Em Skills at their weekly poker night, only I might not make it because first I'm attending the Cowgirl's Karaoke contest, which has come down to two finalists: A man who once publicly wore a pricey feathered wig, fishnets and a corset during his run as Hedwig versus a man who calls himself Jimmy the Carrot. People, this town is a freak show. There's more bizarre stimulation here than downtown Manhattan circa 1988.
The point is, there's more to do than we have time for, and what a luxurious conundrum that is. Why none of us take advantage of it is another issue, for another column. In the mean time, next time a white, queer, spike-y-haired hip-hop duo comes to town, you might think about attending. After all, six whole people can't be wrong.
