New Thrill Parade reviewed in Metro Santa Cruz!
NEW THRILLS
by Mike Conner
Some people just walked out, shaking their heads at the curious cacophony coming from the Catalyst Atrium. Inside, a moderately sized group of kids stood in a horseshoe shape around the stage, making room for the singer of the NEW THRILL PARADE, AMITAI HELLER, who was going apeshit in front of the stage like a Tasmanian Devil. Dressed in vintage white tux and a ruffly pink shirt, he screamed his case for discordant melodrama with eyes and mouth smeared a ghoulish black. Behind him, a bearish bassist wearing a big red POOH shirt sucked on his pacifier, his eyes and mouth also smeared black. The guitarist wore a mask covered in crucifixes and a red robe and dress, while the drummer hammered out the soundtrack to a short, nonexistent surrealist film depicting RINGO STARR in the throes of death. Occasionally, a cherubic young man wearing a shirt that read "God of Shit" fluttered around the stage like a retarded ballerina, feeding himself and the drummer mouthfuls of canned whipped cream. A shamisen player plucked from his lute tiny, tinny flurries of saltwater spray, joining a tidal wave of musical madness that filled the room to the brim with no apologies. Children screamed with terror and delight, others were unaffected. In the distance, an organ played. Shamisen, crashing symbols, screams, guitars. Genius--or something terribly similar.
by Mike Conner
Some people just walked out, shaking their heads at the curious cacophony coming from the Catalyst Atrium. Inside, a moderately sized group of kids stood in a horseshoe shape around the stage, making room for the singer of the NEW THRILL PARADE, AMITAI HELLER, who was going apeshit in front of the stage like a Tasmanian Devil. Dressed in vintage white tux and a ruffly pink shirt, he screamed his case for discordant melodrama with eyes and mouth smeared a ghoulish black. Behind him, a bearish bassist wearing a big red POOH shirt sucked on his pacifier, his eyes and mouth also smeared black. The guitarist wore a mask covered in crucifixes and a red robe and dress, while the drummer hammered out the soundtrack to a short, nonexistent surrealist film depicting RINGO STARR in the throes of death. Occasionally, a cherubic young man wearing a shirt that read "God of Shit" fluttered around the stage like a retarded ballerina, feeding himself and the drummer mouthfuls of canned whipped cream. A shamisen player plucked from his lute tiny, tinny flurries of saltwater spray, joining a tidal wave of musical madness that filled the room to the brim with no apologies. Children screamed with terror and delight, others were unaffected. In the distance, an organ played. Shamisen, crashing symbols, screams, guitars. Genius--or something terribly similar.
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