Triangle

Every good punk rock boy and girl knows that certain elements must be in place for a proper punk-as-fuck show. Outside of your standard set of thrift store-clad indie rockers and fixed-gear hipsters, you need at least one colorfully adorned and clashing Asian punk (and I can say this … I was that Asian punk for years), one adultolescent with graying hair dyed some violent shade of purple and somewhat dated punk attire (think a Ramones t-shirt bought at an actual show rather than at Macy’s) and at least one person at least partially nude and screaming.

All elements were in place at the 21 Grand Gallery on this Tuesday eve. The screaming pantless man was in fact the guitarist of the outfit Robin Williams on Fire. At least I assume he was the guitarist; he was carrying one, but really all I can accurately say was that he was the one careening around the room, howling, and giving us all an unrestricted view of his goods. The adultolescent had his hair dyed green, although he did sport the Ramones t-shirt as well as several wallet chains, and the Asian punkette had her hair crimped up in the style of an onion, with red converse sneakers and Pippi Longstocking stockings. A crowd of horn-rimmed glasses were milling around within, and the cops were milling around on the street outside. It was picture perfect.

Triangle fit the bill of uber-showmanship punk well. Oversized dollar-store glam sunglasses, tight sexy pants, ties draped loosely around shirts without collars – they definitely buy into the idea that presentation trumps content, and they very may well be right. Their noise generating gear was impressive in its complexity: Mac books, looping programs, drum triggers, anything and everything that constitutes an over-the-top techno toy suggesting a disdain for traditional instrumentation and, often enough, a lack of talent. Triangle betrays themselves, however; through the bells, whistles, sound wall and one trick pony show, they drop some hidden counter rhythms and vocal harmonies. It’s few and far between, these nods to some conventional music ability, but they are there, and its what keeps me listening. I usually don’t go for this sort of thing.

They have Wave, whether they like it or not. By Wave, I mean they have some semblance of interlocking resonance, some repeating patterns that we seem to glom onto as human beings who like sound. Sound is a wave, after all, and despite the No-Wave movement spawned in NYC during the ’80s, there really isn’t any sonic expression that doesn’t incorporate this in some way, except perhaps for the ultimately aggravating performers who consider it “intellectual.” Even Free Jazz – the cerebral musicians’ version of abstract painting – employs some notion of interlocking soundwaves and intention.

The set was a fine mesh of all the proper punk elements: subverted aggression, a droll disaffectation punctuated with look-at-me posturing and interspersed with melancholy shoegazing. The music, perhaps soundscape is a better term, was loud, unbroken and indulgent, the way a proper punk show should be. It had crafty elements enough to keep a self-proclaimed music snob like myself interested, and yet maintained all the correct hallmarks of a subculture that, oddly enough, was born of a backlash against the notion of standards. Perhaps I’m being nostalgic for my former tenure as a kinderpunk, but it warmed my heart to see the new cadre of anti-establishment youth hurling each other around in a makeshift mosh pit. They even attempted a touch of misguided crowd surfing, although they ended up looking more like a third world funeral of pallbearers, being only seven people total were truly involved. When the Asian Pippi Longstocking took the mic for the next band and the adultolescent tore off his shirt and started shoving the neo-punkers around the gallery, I felt my night was truly complete. Can a mosh pit be adorable? For me it was.

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