Exploding My Vogue
One of the more kinetic acts in Minneapolis, Flim Flam Man belts out a compelling brand of art-punk: kneejerked microdramas that characterize the notion that high energy rock n' roll can be cerebrally satisfying - as well as viscerally entertaining - in this dry era of retro-ironic schtick swaggery. Indeed. Instead of hurting each other by inhabiting that elusive world of famepain they pretend isn't real (though fruitfully seductive in conception), Flim Flam Man opt to render the stage a sonic chopping block. Ensemble, they dice up core ingredients fro NYC Proto Punk to Krautrock, sprinkled with pinches of Fallish Birthday Partyisms to taste. Iggy is never forgotton, nor Numan neither. There is, however, no anxiety over influence here: a dedication to innovation makes the meal complete. Eat, and reserve the right to regurgitate for a second helping..... The spectacle is centered upon singer Mike Nicolosi, who slashes around the stage/stereo with little concern for remaining on/in it. Listeners will bask in dissonant glee, as he blasts his screech from the fetal position one second and sticks you with a seismic stare the next. Shake, and respond. Performances are punctuated with an injury or three..... British Bass Assasin Guy Low is won't to stretch his legs as far apart as they will go: he sports a death grin of pleasure-pain accordingly. Frenchy owns the traps like no other and twitches in time; there might be drippings. Matt Knutson strangles his Gibson to within inches of twangular propriety, chucking buckets of carnal glitter on the hubub. The territory is uncharted and the mapping strange. The band's paean to the self-destructive rituals we all enjoy, the epic 'NicFit', usually solicits a shower of cigarette related detritus from the crowd. But do they smoke? There's the rub: call them invigorating or grotesque, that you blur both angles and participate in their experiment is Flim Flam Man's invitation. Light up and Listen.....