Let me paint you a picture: The year was aught-three. I was but a wee lass of nineteen who had traveled to a tiny San Francisco venue to see Hunx’s previous band, Gravy Train!!!!, play a show. It turned out to be the worst concert I’d ever attended, and retains that distinction to this day. Of the opening bands, the first incorporated vomiting into their act. The second threw stale fried chicken at us. By the time Gravy Train!!!! finally came on, they played exactly one song before their only instrument, a keyboard, died. It was a long and grouchy ride home, and there were bits of chicken in my hair.
Ever the live music optimist, I’m willing to give second chances. In the years that have passed, Hunx has parted ways with Gravy Train!!!! and formed Hunx and His Punx – the campy doo-wop throwback band I’ve come to see tonight. He appears onstage wearing a black leather jacket, a cummerbund, black tights, a bowtie, and no shirt. His band mates, all ladies, are dressed in men’s clothing and wearing false mustaches. I like them already. The notes are simple and reminiscent of a bygone era. The lyrics, however, are decidedly modern. They begin with "You Don’t Like Rock and Roll," with Hunx’s coy and playful persona in full infectious grandeur. He roams the stage carrying a tambourine, tips his hat to the photographers in the front row, and shimmies out of the leather jacket to reveal a bold leopard-print cardigan. It’s impossible to watch this band without a grin that would put the Cheshire Cat to shame.
The members banter back and forth like best friends at a sleepover, and the songs are charmingly danceable with seedy undertones. They play a new one, "Mr. Lemonade," and Hunx asks Doug Fir’s crew to make a light show. With limited resources, they flash the house lights on and off. Good enough. He dedicates the next number, "Gimme Gimme Back Your Love," to LensCrafters, which sampled the song for a recent commercial. Hunx is flirting with everyone within reach, groping bystanders and tossing his sweater into the crowd. He tells us that the next one will be a slow dance and to "dance with someone really cute." Audience members pair off immediately. The skill levels range from ballroom to middle school gymnasium, but everyone is having fun. This is adorable. Hunx tells us it’s his final show with the Punkettes. "I love you girls," he says before correcting himself, "I love you guys."
As the band’s charming set draws to a close, a giant foam musical note appears out of nowhere. Hunx holds it high in the air. The mirrorball at the center of the venue is suddenly illuminated, and the band completes their set with a 30-second speed metal song entitled "Everyone’s a Pussy." They like it so much, in fact, that they decide to play it twice. The encore merits one final song, and Hunx tosses the big foam musical note into the air before they depart. What this band lacks in complexity, they more than make up for in stage presence.
Guantanamo Baywatch kicked off the evening with aggressive, bass-heavy surf rock. With a name like that, what else could they play? Their long instrumental intro has people doing the swim, and jams the dance floor with bodies after just a few minutes. While their lyrics are mumbled and mostly unintelligible, the beats are peppy and joyous. It’s the kind of music that forces you to shake your moneymaker. Like anachronistic pied pipers, this band has lured people from their perches at the barstools and tables lining Doug Fir’s perimeter. Each song is relentlessly fun and cheerful, which sets the mood quite well. They are mostly instrumental, as this band prefers to be unencumbered by language. Guantanamo Baywatch wraps things up with a fast-paced jam and waves goodbye. Come back soon, fun summer band!
Between Guantanamo Baywatch and Hunx and His Punx, there was a blight on this otherwise merry evening. Blight, thy name is Shannon and the Clams. Though their name reflects the evening’s carefree theme, and though Shannon is also a member of the headlining band, Shannon and the Clams are downright awful. As they are setting up, the guitarist asks the venue’s sound engineer to crank up the reverb on his mic. Shannon’s voice is scratchy and she tries too hard to sound like a whiskey-soaked blues singer. The actual sound is more like a Mack truck. I hate to say it, but the music is just plain ugly. It's gritty and grating, which appears to be completely intentional. There must be some big performance art joke that’s lost on me, because listening to this is about as pleasant as watching the final scene of Pink Flamingos. One song, "The Cult Song," is better than the rest. The band is playing their instruments like normal, rather than trying to make the most revolting noises possible. In addition to sounding unpleasant, each song seems hastily cobbled together and inconsistent. Whatever their gimmick may be, I don’t get it. However, I’ll never feel self-conscious at karaoke again.
