Caroliner

Imagine the early Residents, who, thanks to a time machine, reinterpret the Ruins' repertoire. Picture the Unsane performing the rustic songs of a strung-out Dock Boggs in the middle of an air raid; try to picture a bloody massacre carried out by Charles Manson set to music by the Flying Luttenbachers. Now try raising all of that to the umpteenth power: you still won't get a tenth of what awaits you once you've paid for a ticket to witness the incredible performance of Caroliner, a cult band from the Californian underground active for over twenty years, drawing as much on country/blues (and American traditional music at large) as on the experiments of the Los Angeles Free Music Society collective.

A swarm of unleashed lunatics writhing in convulsions thrashes about on a stage decked out like the tackiest of greeting cards, putting on a lopsided, deafening pantomime bordering on the ridiculous: we're in the presence of one of the most original acts of all time, and from this point on, nothing will ever be the same.

The machine runs at full throttle from the very first minute, and the audience can't help but get swept up by its volcanic drive. The line-up consists of six members (three men, three women — I think), disguised from head to toe (instruments included): vocals, guitar (which, towards the end of the night, will give way to a banjo), bass, keyboards, drums, and a something-that-looks-like-a-guitar-but-I-have-my-doubts. The musicians display considerable skill, and their instruments, despite being coated in three centimetres of paint and every kind of sticker imaginable, sound exactly as they should.

Ninety minutes of performance in which every musician seems to keep the accelerator pinned to the floor. The audience is in raptures and plays along, as things get more and more extreme. Caroliner are an update of an ideal Magic Band of Captain Beefheart as produced by Timothy Leary, though they've definitively retired the traditional concept of "psychedelia".

Towards the end of the show, I turn to my companions in this adventure to catch the look on their faces: they seem as happy as children. And no wonder — we've never seen anything like it, and I suspect the same goes for pretty much anyone else there.

Worth mentioning too is the bizarre "merchandising" stall, where you can find vinyl records and compact discs packaged in incredible packaging, as rough (hand-torn packing cardboard, painted newspaper sheets folded in four) as it is lovingly handmade (each piece painted and assembled by hand); hand-drawn pins; pillowcases (!!!???), shirts, t-shirts and — I believe — pajama bottoms. All of this good stuff strictly second-hand, torn in just the right places and — of course — branded "Caroliner".

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