The Residents
January 30th at Henry Fonda Theatre, Los Angeles

“I believe in ghosts!” a man’s mouth croaked in a strained syrupy-ness, as the rest of his face hid behind the exaggerated wrinkles of an old man’s mask. Standing in a striped robe, oversized polka-dot tie, and clown shoes, he made himself at home before continuing with his story; taking a seat on the coach, staring into a fireplace’s artificial light, and glancing up at a static television set.

Whilst he rested, two identical counterparts (one with a guitar and the other behind keys), dread-locked, sequined, and hidden beneath reflective goggles, created sonic pages of wavering frequencies and piercing sounds from either side of the stage: The perfect stock on which to scribble a twisted tale.
And that, after all, was precisely what Saturday night was about. Within the walls of Los Angeles’ Henry Fonda, twisted tales were abundant as the Residents created for their audience a storybook of immoral fairy tales and gruesome accounts. Identifying himself only as Randy, the lead narrator told in his gravely voice of a pudding roll-up serial killer and the boy who followed in his path, a woman who watched as her mother was done in by a boiling pot of water fallen from the stove, and by the end of the evening, someone (no one can say quite who) ended up deep beneath the prairie, with Randy himself wielding the shovel. Aided by projections of his characters up on circular screens behind him, Randy danced as he told his tales, his arms swinging towards the crowd in strange, fairy-like movements. Meanwhile, his feet in their giant shoes tapped back and forth to the sounds of growling keys and crystallized, yelping guitar.

In between these yarns, the trio glued their set together with songs that pulled things apart. They gave us deconstructed blues, chewed up rock ‘n’ roll, and made ‘70s psychedelia look like something a five year old might have scribbled in crayon. Deep reverberations given off by their instrumentation pounded along the floor and buried into the chest of each audience member. Sometimes wince-inducing, pitches from the two shadowy side-stage players relentlessly washed over everyone, and as the set grew longer, the sounds grew louder and heavier. Eventually, all culminated into a wall of creaking, screeching, and booming that quite literally sent hairs up and eyes wide.

As audience members, we were caught, suspended in surrealists’ imaginations, drawn in and captivated by something entirely unique. And at the end of it, minds were puzzled—it was hard to know exactly how to express the events of the last hour and a half.  And as I write this now, such a feeling is echoed. Given what I have described above, I must end by saying this: Honestly, until you see a Resident’s show, much like the identities of the band themselves, it can only remain a mystery.

Watch: “Hello Skinny” [at youtube.com]

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