Bottom of the Hill
May 12, 2001
Photos
Review by Ajax Green
Nothing can be said of the Gonzales/Peaches show before mentioning that it was a triumph, a tour de force, a show that will be forever inscribed in this patron's mind as the show of shows, a benchmark for which all future pop music entertainments must be measured, and the apotheosis of early twenty-first century culture. Granted this is high praise for a show where the content of the music was uninspired at best - deliberately shocking and offensive, engineered for provocation, simple riffs on the punk 'I don't give a fuck' attitude. In fact, when I first heard the Peaches/Gonzales cd's (as far back as February, pre-hype) I was certain that most would dismiss it as pretentious or stupid, and I only became their champion because of their goofiness. Little did I suspect that they would be put through the hype machine, and that every day I would see their name pop up again and again, only to be culminated by the show where a rabid, cult-like audience sang along and slurped it up like so much gravy.
For those who did not attend, I will omit desciption of the strident and cute 'Blechdom from Blectum' set, since they seem to play out quite often, and if you haven't seen them, suffice it to say their asses were attached (literally), and that they covered Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen (supposedly - I'm not familiar enough with their oevre to know for sure), which made their set enjoyably entertaining, despite the fact that they sing like crap (thus making them unwilling co-conspirators in one of the evening's main themes).
Then 'Chilly Gonzales' came onstage, and everything that I took for grantedwas questioned, all my previous experiences were called into doubt, and we were all expertly entertained. Although few were familiar with his songs, Chilly held the audience 'in the palm of his hand', captivating our usually demure SF crowd with what can only be desribed as 'schtick', briefly described as follows. He emerges, clad in a safari suit, and wearing a pith helmet which has been lowered to cover his face, except for his mouth (his face will be obscured as such for the entirety of his first number). He turns on his beat machine, which cranks out what sounds to my electronica-ignorant ears 80's era analog beats, and he claps along to the beat. But the hands never meet - for the entire first song, we do not know what he looks like or what to make of him. He raps with a streetwise swagger, funny enough because he is obviously not from the 'street', and his rapping, as my companion desribed it, is terrible, although I would not be able to tell the difference between a good rapper and a bad rapper. If what has been written can be believed (and after the show, I have my doubts) he is from Canada, lives in Germany, and is jewish, a self-described 'prankster', and his voice and style is not far off from the humorous rappings of early Beastie Boys.
After the first song, the helmet comes off, and the mystery ends. He appears as a greasy, homely, scrawny man somewhere between 25 and 45. The rest of his set continues in a similar vein: goofy, rude, arrogant. He is determined to entertain. I can't remember the chronology, but the flourishes were memorable. He greases back his hair with spit from his tongue, and then again, and soon he is in a flurry, alternately licking his hands and greasy his hair, faster and faster for what seems to be as minutes, until the absurdity of the act reaches some kind of climax. He threatens that being on the road has made him unpredictable, and that he'doesn't know what he's capably of doing', as he begins to disrobe. The audience, expecting nudity, is shown instead a lounge-worthy suit, pink by my estimation, but perhaps white, hidden underneath the safari jacket and pants, and the man has been transformed from street safari thug to smooth and greasy entertainer. His raps continue, partnered with a frenzied, almost (?) choreographed dancing, covering all manner of sundry topics, the most memorable being his rant on a particular A&R woman named 'Candy', a rap which contained probably his most offensive lyric: 'sucking on the dicks of the three warner brothers'. The audience plays along, and the performer and his crowd are working together, feeding off each other, as his shtick further excites: he inflates a baloon of some kind (I assumed it was 'nasty' but I couldn't really tell), he eventually pulls open his shirt exposing his hairy chest, and general shenanigans continue. We are rapt.
To the audience's sheer thrill, Peaches emerges from behind a curtain that obscures the right-hand rear corner of the stage. She is miming Chilly's choreographed moves, and lip-syncing the song from behind him, in the dark, in what appears to be a stoned-out haze. Later she 'duets' with him, and eventually, without a break, she takes over the show. She announces Chilly's departure, "Chilly Gonzales, the greatest entertainer in the world!" and I believe her. My simple recollections of his set written here cannot accurately describe his talent, which was monumental. A natural entertainer, nothing more, but of extraordinary skill, like watching a great tennis player or acrobat, either endowed at birth or studiously learned from a very early age, or a Buster Keaton, which is my most emphatic compliment, Chilly Gonzales entertained.
My understanding, which mostly comes from reading an article on Chilly Gonzales in Vice Magazine (what seems like a few years ago - a terrific sleazy magazine from Toronto that was hanging around coffeeshops for awhile) is that Peaches is a protege of Chilly's, that he is the master and she is the student, which is why I was suprised in the weeks leading up to the show that everyone (the hype machine) was talking about her and not him. While her style is different - less jokey, more disturbed, but still tongue in cheek, she did not have quite the presence, and it was admittedly a hard act to follow. Like Chilly, she danced and was nasty and changed clothes, but she occaisioned to let go of the artifice, answering an audience members offer of a drink with a hearty 'yes, please'. The audience however, was enthralled, for reasons that I could only guess. She is a tough woman who sings about getting fucked, which has it's own appeal I guess, but she was not as charasmatic as her predecessor. Luckily, just as the show started to droop, he re-appeared from behind the curtain for another duet. And then another. The crowd was bellowing for more, as Chilly exclaimed: "I'm so happy right now!".
Thus we are led into the ignominy of the evening, that ugly beast that so often rears his head: the triple encore. Yes, it had been a wonderful evening. Yes, the fans were going crazy. Yes, they probably don't garner such accolades in other american cities. But an entertainer such as Chilly, whose very marrow was born of entertainment, should have known better than to succumb to the ego by performing a triple encore. The show, which will be marked in history nontheless, could have been flawless, mysterious and sublime except for this sorry fault. I left before the last song had finished, in disgust.
Now, only the questions remain. How did this duo manage to sell out to a rabid crowd with such crappy material? As I mentioned before, their CD's appeal can only be for lovers of the absurd, a contingent that I always felt was small. Perhaps some combination of the absurd with the lurid piqued interest somehow? As I was reverently in awe, I could not believe that people knew the words, and even sang along (although I remember Daz threatening to do just that), and generally cut them so much slack.
Even more frightening was the self-realization that I was being entertained - and loving it, which is odd because the parallels between this duo and the the black hole that is 'mainstream' pop are too close to ignore: the choreography, the costume changes, the audience participation, the artifice, it all was just this close to an 'n sync or a BSB, or any other prefab entertainment. I realized that it was only palatable, or that I only let myself enjoy being entertained because the content was so deliriously and obviously crappy or crass. Weird.
Further weirdness involved security at the Bottom of the Hill, as I noticed two or three 'heavys' patrolling the crowd, then surveying from the stage during the show, occaisionally shining flashlights around, looking for something. Smokers? Gropers? Pot-Dopers? As if this wasn't weird enough, an altercation broke out toward the front of the stage, whereupon someone was hastily and forcibly removed from the club, during what was the climax of the set, with Peaches and Gonzo rapping furiously. What happened? I don't know. Who were the security people? Was it a gag? I don't even know. I've never seen anything like it at the Bottom of the Hill after years in attendance.
Except for it's ignominious conclusion the show would have been the consummate entertainment, borrowing from decades, perhaps centuries of Vaudeville style performance. I am sad for all of those who were not in attendance.
Dutifully yours,
Ajax
Blechdom from Blectum
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Chilly Gonzales
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Peaches
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Peaches & Gonzales
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Read our Peaches review from SXSW 2001.
©2001 playinginfog.com