We accidentally get here in time for Casey Spooner. I don’t mind, having really enjoyed Fischerspooner, but it turns out those feelings are misplaced. He’s singing alone in front of a white drape, accompanied by an unceasing tape that I imagine was put together in GarageBand. His singing is exactly good enough to go under the flashy sounds and slick production of Fischerspooner. This format, with nothing to look at or focus on except him, and the man himself not dancing or moving at all, forces the listener to pay attention to his voice, which is not strong enough to stand up under that kind of scrutiny. I am sitting down by the wall. I forgot how much I hate this venue. It’s a big concrete warehouse down by the river. Why is it so humid? It’s not even hot! Just wet.
The band’s roadies are amazing: one almost perfectly round guy with a classic mullet, one older gentleman with a braid to his butt. Now these are roadies!
DJ Sammy Jo whatever is adorable, and he’s djing off CDs, which feels intentionally throwbacky, like vinyl. He’s clearly from the same era of New York that the Scissors are.
There are two teensy women behind me, which makes me feel bad, as I’m probably 6’1″ in these heels.
I don’t know how much of it is a function of the primarily dance/rave crowd they draw here, but one of the reviewers of this place on CitySearch said that it was impossible not to get bumped into and jostled. Another said that getting jostled was the point. Anyway, I’m definitely experiencing the jostling and disliking it. The problem is that the entrance runs the length of the space, with the stage to the right and the bar to the left. This means there’s no back to hover at. You step in and everyone fills in, forming the crowd around you. You’re fucked.
The biggest hit of Sammy’s set is La Roux’s “Bulletproof.” Insert surprised face.
I always thought that the reason I didn’t wear heels to shows was one of comfort. Turns out, it was actually because of an innate law of physics: if this crowd starts moving and I get shoved, I’m going down.
The backup singers are skinny redheads, like Ana. I wonder if that was in the job description?
Ana announces their intention to run for mayor as some sort of quinpartite entity. Their platform is the repeal of the cabaret laws so we can dance wherever we want.
There are several songs that Jake and Ana treat as solos. She drops back to sing with the backup girls while he sings “Skintight”, dedicated to his boyfriend, then he leaves the stage while she and the girls do a sultry, perfectly choreographed version of “Skin This Cat.” It’s not something I’ve ever really seen from a band before, with the exception of the horrible Plain White T’s. In that case, it was very much a fame grab by the lead singer. Here, it feels more like they respect each other enough as artists and feel secure enough in their place in the group that it doesn’t matter who is and isn’t onstage. (Luckily, the gorgeous Del Marquis is always on stage. Yum.)
HIP WADERS HIP WADERS HIP WADERS. I figured the encore would be an excuse for a costume change, but that is no reason for Jake to come out in what appear to be hip waders with the sides removed.
The Scissors are falling into the Metric problem of playing the weakest new songs after the encore break. This is the time when I need to be distracted from the pain in my feet! I guess if I was doing ecstasy and grinding on a stranger, I could deal with the tom solo and recorded Sir Ian McKellen monologue. But as it is, I just desperately want to go home.
But, it all comes back together, ending the set with their huge, party-in-five-minutes rendition of “Filthy/Gorgeous,” complete with Ana ripping her top off and confetti cannons. Everyone goes home happy.