Towards the end of the night last Friday, the seas parted. It may have been a fight—not a huge surprise there. Granted, King Khan is no G.G. Allin, but given the boisterous quasi-moshing occurring toward the front for the bulk of the band’s set at Bowery Ballroom, it seems unlikely anyone would have been too taken aback had some momentary scuffle erupted—perhaps a few too many pints were imbibed, some sideways glances traded, maybe someone looked the wrong way at someone else’s significant either.
It was nothing of the sort, however. When a sufficient number of baffled onlookers had stepped aside, a handful of Bowery security guards could be seen dragging a large, curly haired bearded man in a leopard print Speedo along the ground. Every so often he’d sweatily escape their grip and attempt to scramble away, only to be pulled back down again. Eventually the scrum made its way to the front of the club and out the entrance, where the apparent offender was deposited on the sidewalk.
We watched for a while, still unaware of what precisely occurred, as he paced around and fumed nearly naked in the late-October air, taking his precious time before covering back up.
Even with a band as spasmodically engrossing as King Khan & the BBQ Show, it’s hard to go back to being the member of a rock ‘n’ roll audience after a show like that. After a few more songs, it seemed as good a place as any to cut things off.
This is no slight against Misters Khan and BBQ, of course—in fact, even now I’m not entirely convinced that such a spectacle wasn’t some brilliantly engineered part of the titular show, itself comprised of Arish “King” Khan in a dress and blue wig, banging the shit out of a vintage guitar, accompanied by turban-wearing Mark “BBQ” Sultan playing an accompanying instrument with each available limb. There’s a precarious cloth backdrop draped over some PVC piping, as well, as if its painted words might give onlookers some manner of insight into what the hell is unfolding in front of their eyes.
It’s a far cry from the relatively subdued nature of openers, Dum Dum Girls, a state that might well be chalked up to the recent death of a friend to whom the set was dedicated. If anything, though, the explanation, given roughly 2/3 of the way through the set added some wind the band’s sails, reenergizing them the rest of the way to the finish line.
Ultimately, though, while the group has fuzzy chops enough for three bands, one still has the distinct impression that their largely static live show is still best suited for a venue a bit smaller than the cavernous Bowery—though such is the plight of a relatively young band. Next time out, maybe King Khan will lend them the Speedo guy for the night.
Photo by www.flickr.com/photos/wneuheisel/
