Two verses into the first song, Pink Lincolns singer Chris Barrows hurled the metal mic stand at an audience member. The kid put his hands up just in time to prevent having his face clobbered. It was at this point in the evening — well past midnight — that I removed myself and my $5 beer from the danger zone.
Going into Saturday's Pink Lincolns gig, I had my doubts that the show would be ferocious. After all, the legendary Tampa punk quartet has been offering its snotty sonics and anarchic stage antics for more than two decades. Perhaps frontman Chris Barrows had mellowed now that he'd reached middle age.
Nope.
Wrinkles marked the singer's leathery face, a wedding band shown on his left index finger, and when he ditched the shirt, his wiry figure revealed a post-Turkey Day paunch. But a few extra pounds and deep lines around his eyes didn't stop the Lincolns' fearless leader from making the most of the intimate confines of New World Brewery in Ybor City.
As most CL readers are aware, the venue has no stage. The musicians perform directly in front of the crowd at eye level. Or in the case of Barrows, writhes at the audience members' feet, leaps into the crowd, delivers a line while seated on a dude's lap, spits incessantly on the dance floor and pushes some kid so hard that he falls back into a girl and a half-assed brawl ensues.
The female victim of circumstance — after all, she did position herself in the mosh area — enthusiastically threw her knees toward the poor dude's groin while he was attacked by another guy (I'm guessing her boyfriend.) The scuffle was broken up before any injuries were incurred.
Barrows appeared indifferent. Throughout the night, he mercilessly taunted the crowd of aging punks and youngsters. They responded like the kind of people who prefer the ball and gag to the whip. The singer would push 'em, and they would smile appreciatively. He'd knock over the monitor, and they'd carefully pick it (and him) back up. Need another Newcastle, Mr. Barrows? Yep, they'd bring him one. It was an odd form of hero worship, with a conspicuous S&M bent.
In a faux British accent, Barrows sang about how much he hated cock-rock, happy hour and his friends. Most of the words were unintelligible. The rhythm section was adequate, with the real star of the show, as far as musicianship goes, being guitarist Dorsey Martin. The ax man alternated between precision riffs and eruptive noise sans pedal effects. He stood there like an oak. I imagined if the mic Barrows kept twirling around whacked Martin on the head, he wouldn't have missed a beat.
"I've never seen so many guys in black T-shirts looking so effeminate," Barrows growled while staring directly at a guy in a black T-shirt. The kid grinned stupidly. I left while the crowd begged for an encore.
Pulsating music reverberated off the streets leading to St. Petersburg's Vinoy Park. Dazzling multicolored lights at the water's edge suggested that a wild party was in full swing. But the crowd that had gathered to see Crystal Method — headliners of the second annual Sunset '07 electronica fest — was fairly subdued, greeting each new number with lackluster enthusiasm that dwindled as the two-hour set progressed.
Big bass-heavy beats vibrated the sternum; cryogenic tanks sporadically sprayed cool mists; visuals played on several screens around the raised platform where Crystal Method duo Ken Jordan and Scott Kirkland took turns spinning songs and morphing sounds. The stage was overrun with scantily clad go-go dancers and the occasional fire performer.
But audience members remained generally unfazed, their dancing sporadic, and most seemed more interested in entertaining themselves and their friends with all manner of light toys than paying genuine attention to what was taking place right in front of them. Overall, the Crystal Method show was a discouraging indicator of the current state of the electronic music scene.
—Leilani Polk