I had a fantastic time at Paper's show at Cake Shop, but the friend I came with retreated upstairs soon after their set began. I don't think most people I know would like this music. Your body has to hum at a certain frequency. Those of us who were digging it still had a hard time achieving the proper speed at which to dance. We'd have just vibrated if we could. I saw one woman give it a go up by the stage. Her movements were sort of tribal, with sudden lurches and lunges.
The Stockholm-based band has a three-piece setup: Their rhythm guitarist works his hand into a blur as he launches a squelching, squealing, zig-zagging attack with melodic phrases etched into the fuzz. He plays so fast that his chord progressions sound more like a wandering drone unless you listen closely. The drummer wears a rolled-sleeve work shirt and skinny tie, affecting an office manager who'd drunk a gallon of espresso that morning. The frontman, skinny under a Garfield tee, with that shadowing Scandanavian brow and scream-cords that bulged from his neck, helped layer the sound with some slower tones from the keyboard. "Now we are going to play a song about a very small animal," he would drone, or, "This is a song about ... like the main character from Welcome to the Dollhouse—you pity her but still you hate her."
Then they'd set off another blitzkreig, and I'd rap a tattoo against the wall or something. The crowd at Cake Shop, in jitters themselves, gave the floor speakers a few feet of berth. Paper might be a bit loud, but an exploding heart was a bigger risk than broken ears. If you wish New Order was rawer, meaner and faster, but you still like a some pop in your punk, catch Paper the next time it lands in New York.
All photos by Pamela Cardoso
