Q&A with Bobby Conn, Prophet of Armageddon, Who's Coming to Town This Weekend

"Our 5'1" prophet of the Armageddon," "Judeo-Christian edutainer," "The bravest little man in Chicago’s cutthroat entertainment industry": that’s how Bobby Conn has described his seductive, outlandish brand of foppery. A veteran of the obscure, theatrical band Condeucent, the diminutive megalomaniac went solo in the mid-90s and convinced some of his hometown’s most visible avant-garde musicians (Jim O’Rourke, U.S. Maple’s Pat Samson) to help him perfect a reptilian hybrid of rock-opera frivolousness, sickly disco bounce, AOR pomp, Bowie-derived glam-folk and no-wave conceptualism.

A versatile guitarist possessed of both a buttery falsetto and a show-stopping howl, Conn writes cunning hooks and ornate arrangements with a crass, sinister-sweet outlook that mixes Kim Fowley, Tom Jones and David Koresh. On his fantastic sophomore album, 1998’s Rise Up! (Truckstop/Atavistic), Conn cast himself as a doomed Antichrist, masquerading as a pop idol, who would end the world in 2000. When the millennium came and went, Conn shrugged off his Apocalypse theory and unveiled The Golden Age (Thrill Jockey), an ode to the adolescent decadence of a bygone era. Awash in lyrics like, "I was pretty dumb/But my gums/Got so numb/From the cocaine/When they were kissing me," The Golden Age is to 80s metal and funk what James Chance’s Off White was to 70s r&b and punk–a jaw-dropping, deliciously sleazy revision. I interviewed Conn via e-mail before his two upcoming New York shows.

It was a tremendous relief to discover that I’m just another two-bit entertainer with a poor grasp on reality. This whole Antichrist business was just a hunch I’d had since seeing The Omen on television at an early, impressionable age. I figured, that’s gotta be me: Why else is this little black rain cloud following me around as I play in my sandbox? Now the burdens are lifted and I can face the world as an ordinary mortal. Unfortunately, the world has gone to hell in a handbasket, but I promise you, it’s not my fault.

I’m Sorry, I’ve Made a Terrible Mistake is more of a low-key folk album with bongos and whispering maidens. Frankly, there wasn’t a whole lot of support for it, so I went back to the drawing board and came up with The Golden Age.

You need a lot of cowbells and synth bass to correctly celebrate Middle America. I grew up in a variety of small, bland, semi-suburban Midwestern towns, riding around in my best friend’s Mustang, stealing hubcaps and smashing grocery carts, listening to Aerosmith play "Sweet Emotion" on the radio. Or wearing makeup and hair gel to high school and getting my ass kicked for listening to Visage.

Or groping around in a damp, basement rec room filled with half-baked boys and girls dancing to Midnight Star. Or tripping alone in a tree, with Black Flag on my walkman as I flew down to the ground.

Not at all! I still enjoy both, but I’ve lost that teenage conviction that my personal identity is defined by a specific pursuit of pleasure. Growing up isn’t the end of the world, nor is it the end of getting high or getting adequate prostate stimulation. But most of these songs deal with the confusion pleasure can bring, which isn’t meant to be a judgment pro or con.

Horrifying? What’s your fucking problem? We are both having the time of our lives in our giant orange teleporter that opens a transdimensional time gate to our beach house at Big Sur! Are you just jealous that we can step into a giant piece of fruit whenever we want to take a dip in the surf? Don’t be so small-minded.

I ask them very nicely. Chicago is an openminded place; musicians just aren’t as isolated from each other stylistically like in some other towns I’ve visited. Plus, this is our cultural heritage, for better or worse. Playing it is like falling off a log or stepping in dogshit: anyone can do it.

We will construct a human pyramid with volunteers from the audience, conduct mass weddings and smash pieces of cardboard with other pieces of cardboard. Mainly, I just like seeing what happens; it all depends on how badly the audience wants to have a good time. We are very generous with our love.

Who wants to look like an ordinary chump onstage? People are taking the trouble to leave the house and pay money to see us, so why look like we just woke up after spending the night passed out on the couch? It’s called professionalism.

We have a baby boy named Augie, but we don’t have any plans to stuff and mount him. He was conceived in the usual way. As for the rest of our collection, it’s mainly the work of a self-taught taxidermist, a German artist named Micki Tschur. She lives in Frankfurt and has done lots of stuff with Herman Nitsch. Most of it is roadkill and found corpses, but she also kills and stuffs a turkey every year for Thanksgiving. Animal-rights activists: yes, we are animals.

Who says I’ve stopped? Folks that see me perform are motivated to do all sorts of things: go home, throw tomatoes, slash my tires, even purchase t-shirts and records.

I used to say I was 5-1 so that people would be surprised at how tall I was in real life. But it never really worked. So now I’m just telling everyone I’m 6-2 and hoping they don’t notice.

Thanks, but it’s my goal to be just as crass and boring as Beck and the Beastie Boys! I’m not a joke-rock act mainly ’cause I’m not that funny and I’m not ironic because I’m deadly serious. I have a real problem with the whole concept of kitsch. I’ve always enjoyed romance, pathos and sentimentality without qualifications. I think that Mexican tv variety shows kick the ass of so-called "reality" shows, and that integrity is often just another pose. But that doesn’t mean I’m a cynic. It’s just my brand of entertainment; if some people find it silly or repulsive, I’m not gonna waste time trying to convince them otherwise. That’s your job, I’m afraid.