They were unruly, profane, and brilliant. They played wild fits of eccentric jazz, punctured with ecstatic bursts of head-banging rock guitar. They performed feats of musical tight-rope and derring-do, reveling in dizzying runs and giddy chord progressions that left us, the audience, gob-smacked in a most enjoyable way.
They did Girl of Ipanema, Yesterday Once More, by the Carpenters, Back in Black, and a song about appreciating a cow, as you would never imagine them, and as I cannot and will not attempt to describe here.
They had come back from the dead. In their previous show, all five members had committed suicide on stage. Their miraculous resurrection enabled them to make their way to the Record Bar in Westport last night and perform once again for a clamoring audience. They spoke of having met Frank Zappa, Karen Carpenter, and Antonio Carlos Jobim in the after life.
Roger and I were in that audience. When I ordered my Guinness, the bartender had warned me to get my ear plugs. But I knew that with Brad Cox on keyboards, Jeff Harshbarger on electric bass, Scotty McBee on drums, James Isaac on saxophone and flute, Matt Brewer on guitar, and all of them on unflinching vocals, I had to be prepared for anything.
And it was anything, alright, Anything and everything and writhing.