Pet Me Milk Me Kill Me Eat Me (Gogol Bordello, Warsaw)

It was a perfect concert moment.  And technically, I’m not sure it was even at a concert.

Because there are these concerts I go to, here, and mostly they’re rooms filled with bunches of standarounds – me included, I’m there, too – staring at a stage.  On the stage there’s some band that may or may not be good, may or may not be doing its darndest; in the room, there’s some drinking, some nodding, perhaps even a ripple of twee bounces.  If that’s the definition of a concert in New York City, what I saw tonight wasn’t a concert.  It might be a simple way to define fun, though:  Sold-out, all-ages Gogol Bordello show at the Polish National Home in Greenpoint, Brooklyn.

Technically it’s not a concert, it’s a party.

There’s a band, of course.  Led by mustachioed Ukrainian émigré-slash-renowned DJ-slash-sometime actor Eugene Hütz, Gogol Bordello revels in its multi-hyphenatry.  They call themselves “Gypsy Punks,” which is a good start.  Like other punk strains that incorporate traditional ethnic music or non-traditional instrumentation (Irish punk, ska, blahblahblah), Gogol – which, in its basic set-up, takes a traditional two-guitar four-piece and adds a fiddle and accordion – provides a bridge between celebratory ancestral folk music and our accelerated culture.  But wait, there’s more:  Hütz-the-DJ’s vast world music skillset finds its way in, dropping in elements of dub, reggae, rap... and whatever else hits his fancy.  Klezmer.  Critics love to say “klezmer.”  Perhaps because it’s fun to say.

Klezzzzzzzzmer.

The fiddle-player, Sergey Ryabtsev, keeps a sharp white beard, a mane of gray hair... and a sleeveless Slayer t-shirt; the accordionist, Yury Lemeshev is a bit of a schlub, a cap covering his combover, his box slapping against his gut.  And when Hütz introduces the band by name, they get the biggest roar.

Gogol Bordello – I Would Never Wanna Be Young Again (mp3) (from their latest CD, Gypsy Punks Underdog World Strike (buy))

For me Gogol’s music is, in spirit, the closest thing we’ve got to a modern-day Clash.  Aggressive in its inventiveness and its attitude, it’s in-your-face outsider art, melting pot as Molotov cocktail.  It rocks the ghetto, the caravan, the casbah.

The cabaret, too, I suppose.  Browsing the band’s name, I see the word come up again and again.  The people using it no doubt got to the band long, long before I did – this was my first Gogol Bordello show – and perhaps it applied in smaller venues.  But not here.  It’s not just that the narrative sweep of Hütz’ music got lost in the Warsaw’s poor acoustics.  Cabaret, to me, is pose and distance and melodrama.  This music is hearty, natural stuff.  When the front half of a packed 800-person room is bouncing continuously for two hours along with – not at – music, then all the world’s a stage, not just that little wooden riser with the players.

In fact, Hütz refused to stop at the edge of the platform.  Several times he walked right off it, calling on the crowd’s support, walking on their palms.  It’s something I haven’t seen since Guitar Wolf was at CBGBs a couple years ago, and far from its literal connotation – walking all over the audience – it’s a profound show of respect.  Whenever the show of hands gave way Hütz surfed, instead, sometimes strumming his guitar all the way home.

The crowd surfed themselves, too, though the security detail up front was quick to reel them in.  Once, when they pulled one out right underneath the singer, Hütz sighed, “No, it’s alright” over the loudspeakers.

From the very start of the set the floor was in motion.  Pits formed in pits.  From far away the whole front half was one big pogo pit, people bounding with the beat, sometimes leaping on Cossack cue.  Hey!  Hey!  Hey!  Hey!  Inside, though, there were intermittent mosh pits.  Dance pits.  Behind me, a group of kids cleared out some space, linked arms, and started rotating in a big wedding-style circle.  It was all all-ages, co-ed, friendly.  The surfers were a solid 50-50 male/female split – half the trips taken by some ringer for MMMBop-era Zac Hanson, who could have been either/or.

I remember thinking that the first time I was in a pit, some of these kids were still in the womb.  But I don’t think I’ve ever been in one where so many strangers grabbed each other not to swing or shove each other, but to face-to-face dance.  “Dance with me, fucker!” someone yelled, nearby.

It was relentless, but fewer people than usual crawled to the sides to rest.  On stage, the band seemed to be daring the crowd to match its energy.  Hütz never stood still, up there.  Not that you were watching him, all the time.  The band was only part of the show.

There were few, if any, breaks between songs.  For all their flavor, Gogol songs often have the same texture; they’re also long in the jam, and it felt at times numbers drifted ad infinitum.  The encore, during which they appeared to play no more than five songs, lasted almost an hour.  But the big problem with jam bands is their self-indulgent insularity; there was no way to argue that, here, when everyone was so obviously involved.  The only complaint I could muster was that the break before the encore was too short.  I’d barely caught my breath when they came back out promising “a slow number.”  Meaning, of course, they were about to launch into something at double time.

I think I lost five pounds.

Technically, it’s not a concert.  It’s an exercise regimen.

One that’s benefited the band.  It didn’t take long for the singer to strip down to the waist, but this wasn’t anything like Tim Harrington’s exhibition here a month ago.  Hütz is working himself towards Iggy Pop-lean, and the room was getting hot, hot, hot.  The crowd followed not just the music – which it did like it had a map, clapping beats without prompt and anticipating tempo accelerations – but the wardrobe change.  As the pit became a puddle, clothes stuck to their owners or disappeared altogether.  Someone bent down to pick up a fallen jacket and came up with a discarded brassiere.

Two babushka’d women (Elizabeth Sun and Pamela Jintana Racine) joined the band from time to time, sometimes singing, sometimes crashing cymbals and pounding a marching bass drum, and once wearing personalized washboards around their necks.  They posed, boards slung over their shoulders, backs to the audience, metal-tipped gloves clutching the air above their heads as Hütz dragged his microphone over one, then the other.  Well, over their washboards.

In the crowd there were spontaneous make-out sessions, couples grabbing at each other while people bounced around and into them.  Supposedly, this band got its start playing weddings; last night, it felt like they were scoring conceptions.

Technically, it’s not a concert.  It’s an orgy.

So, that perfect moment?

We’re on the last song of the encore – we have been, for some time.  It’s called “Undestructable,” [sic] and everyone’s starting to feel that way.  Hütz has spent more time on the crowd than on the stage.  Sergey’s bow has a tail of loose horsehair. 

Gogol Bordello - Undestructable (mp3) (buy)

The women have been slingshotting red fabric somethings out into the room; one of them grabs her marching drum, turns it horizontally and pushes it out.  It looks like she’s letting it set sail... but when she’s sure it’s steady, out there, she climbs aboard.  As the crowd holds up the drum, she’s up there, on her knees, wailing away with a mallet.  She’s going at it so hard the fluff on the mallet head is flying off.

It looks a little like this: (photo from Niceness’ Flickr account)

That photo’s from another show, in another town.  No, it doesn’t matter that it’s part of the routine, it’s still awesome.  But it’s also not the perfect moment.

Hütz decides to join her and leaps on to the drum.  He’s standing up, singing “Undestructable!”, she’s banging away underneath him, everyone who can fit into the immediate area is holding them up.

Again, routine.

What’s special is this:  As he’s dismounting – into the crowd – he’s bending over, holding the mic out.  Everyone’s singing “Undestructable!” again and again, and Hütz is rotating, collecting voices.  As he turns towards the stage, one of the security guards beams, leans towards the mic and sings.

It was perfect because, at that moment, that wasn’t some paid employee working a gig, separating a band from the people who came to see it.  That guard, and Hütz, and his band, and everyone jumping around in that sweat-soaked house – we were all alive and together and putting on a show.

Technically, that’s not a concert.  That’s a fucking miracle.

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They were occasionally joined, also, by a Spanish-speaking MC who may or may not have been part of the first opening act, a Columbian ska/reggae outfit called Skampida (I didn’t get there until second opener Zox was finishing its set).  He also played this nifty (but incongruous, given the traditional instrumentation of Gogol) electronic bongo stand.

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Tour dates are here.

At the end of the show, Hütz announced they’d be playing an upcoming show at Irving Plaza to benefit (I think) a Ukrainian rights organization.  No info on the Gogol sites, yet, but tickets are on sale ($22.50) at the Irving Plaza box office and here.  Go.  Duh.

He also announced his DJ gigs will start again next Thursday at a new address.  Hopefully there will be more info on their site.

Other CDs are available for sale.

Here’s their myspace.

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Underblog World Strike:

SkiBrooklyn was there, and -- as it was an all-ages show -- there are write-ups on 1 2 3 livejournals, a myspace, and friendster.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

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Unrelated, really:  This Band Will Change Your Life

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Tapes & Tapes & Tapes Dept.:

Friday night at Pianos?  Forget Cassettes

Saturday at Sin-é?  Cassettes Won't Listen

My new band, Orange Wolfhorse 8-Track, coming soon.

(Then again, there's this suggestion from Zoilus

...who ALSO NOTES that the proto-punkers of ROCKET FROM THE TOMBS (not Crypt) have come together to RECORD NEW MATERIAL.  Holy McCrap.

tags: eugene hutz  gogol bordello  rocket from the tombs  dj hutz  concert reviews  

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