LUDIC LOG

It's a rare thing -- exceedingly rare; it hasn't happened for me in a few years -- that I go to see a band I've never heard of and am instantly blown away. Catching lightning in a bottle like that is such a blue-moon occurence that it's like falling in love: it can make you a fan for life, which is particularly heartbreaking if the band never goes anywhere, career-wise. Well, it happened recently with My Name Is Rar-Rar.

Local to Chic, this phenomenal foursome arrested my attention and beat it to the ground like nothing I've heard since seeing Kid Koala live when I first moved here. I saw them last night at the soon-to-disappear Fireside Bowl and was absolutely stunned; my friends had described them in glowing praise, but very rarely has a promise been so thoroughly delivered on. Playing before an audience of maybe two dozen hipsters (all around 22 and already jaded), they began their set with a blast of spasmodic, angular noise that cleared out the weak sisters, and proceeded to completely amaze me for the rest of what turned out to be a frustratingly short set.

The most obvious comparison for their sound, to me, was Boredoms: they share the same love of spastic, herky-jerky rhythms, synthesized noise-waves, shouted gibberish and mouth-noise, and ability to turn on a musical dime with the brilliant Yamantaka Eye and company. However, they're no mere students or copyists: they're something quite original, working perhaps from a model but throwing entirely different elements into the mix to come up with an incredible fusion. Singer Greg Peters rumbles incomprehensible stage patter between songs, sounding for all the world like Tom Waits if his drug of choice were LSD instead of whiskey, and blats out fantastic, insane shrieks and moos and growls and screeches as he holds the mic like he's never seen one before. Chuck Falzone, prowling around the corner of the stage like he's about to explode with fury, provides a markedly un-Boredomsy element with his guitar playing: shards of amateurish noise are intercut with ultra-tight, heavy riffing and unexpected jazzy elements, recalling no one more than D. Boon. Drummer Chrissy Rossettie brings a solid, robotic snap to the proceedings and keeps the swirling chaos perfectly framed with her jagged beats. And perhaps the most amazing performance -- serving both as anchor and explorer -- is the synth-bass work of Jonathan Hiscke, who describes superbly mad figures out of pure air with an instrument that few even bother to play, let alone in as innovative a manner. He remains the most physically steady, stuck in his corner, resembling a cross between Richard Ramirez and Charles Manson, but his playing is the farthest out on the edge, darting in between the other instruments and building a massive roar all its own.

My friends and I left immediately after they finished (for God knows what reason, they were the opening band); we reasoned that no matter who followed them, they wouldn't be as good. They sound nothing like a band that opens at a minor punk club; they sound like they've been playing together for years, and their sophisticated, deceptively intricate structures belie their youth. These motherfuckers should be millionaires. Unfortunately, they don't even have an album yet, and their website (http://www.mynameisrarrar.com) contains only one mp3 of their work, which doesn't begin to show how good they really are. But they're recording a record now, and are about to embark on an East Coast tour this September. No matter who's playing with them, no matter where they're playing, no matter how far you have to go to see them, seek them out. Bands this good don't happen often; and they go on to succeed even less often.