Fol Chen

Several times, from behind a wall marked “Band Only” to the right of the outdoor stage at Red 7, as we listened to the hard rocking of the Thermals and the hipster musements of Yoni Wolf (what an image that name conjures), the masked and querulous visage of a strange looking fellow would appear for a moment, squirrel-like, and then duck out of sight. The second or third time this occurred I noticed that the Zorroesque bandit mask around his eyes was in fact painted on, like a football player overambitious with the kohl. He wore red leather pants with a triangiform design down one leg, and a matching shirt. He scanned the audience and did not appear to find what he was looking for. Once Yoni was done with his lonely keyboard, this Zorro appeared on stage, followed by a troupe of similarly clad musicians. These were the members of Fol Chen—a misguided band from California. A masked keyboardist, a masked bassist, a masked lead singer/guitarist with heroic hair, a drummer (the squirrelly one), and another keyboardist, also masked, this one the only lady member of the troupe. The seeming arbitrary-yet-loud nature of their costume was to be a precursor of their sound: an intentional (one hopes) cacophony of mashed chords and wailing falsetto vocals and sloppy rhythms, yet with none of the fuller and more fulfilling mystery of Deerhoof, nor the wailing soul and sexiness of Beck at his more whimsical—though it seemed they had intended some sort of amalgam of the two. Like the kid who sits in the front row of philosophy class, they appeared to have a lot of interesting ideas they could not quite grasp, let alone put into words, yet hesitated not at all to do so anyway. But there was a strip of sun at the outside edge of the tent in which one could stand, mostly content, and daydream as the kid had his say.