Words by Kyle Smith//Illustration by Curtis Akey
Though faced with the daily confusion of bizarre Burger King adverts, we let the company get by. After all, their Madison Ave. suits have families to feed, right? Nevermind the pornographic frolics of the Subservient Chicken or the King himself: we have to remember that somebody is paid to come up with this shit, and that person has friends and a life to lead outside of creating an exaggerated, real-life Burger “King,” wearing a mask more akin to action-comedy armed robberies.

The Burger King ads are self-righteously awkward and weird, reveling as termite art in a corporate industry. Forget the food, flame-broiled and delicious as it may be; just partake in this wacky excess. In this context of prime-time avant-garde, there’s a parallel to Montreal’s Les Georges Leningrad — performance first, substance second. Their spiky music has indisputable hooks that the band obscures with their own collections of masks, noise, and pomo pranks. A dancepunk cover of “Big Buckin’ Chicken” is a tantalizing pre-show possibility.

Similarly antagonistic were Chicago-based openers KK Rampage. I doubt the Quebecers’ parents traversed all the Great Lakes in this kind of cold, but there were a number of Mike and Maggie Seavers in the audience who sat on the stairs, drank chardonnay and wore irony-free make-up. It doesn’t matter whether or not these were the progenitors of KK Rampage, because in this arena of art-rock one can make such far-fetched assumptions. Why not?

How, then, do the boys of KKR explain to Mom and Dad their singular brand of music? The band performs indie stereotypes by cavorting in striped sweaters with stylish hair-cuts and nine o’clock shadows. Proof that they never practice is evidenced by their egalitarian stage set-up (on the floor) and the 90-minus seconds they spent sound checking. The band collectively removed their sweaters to reveal white tees (costume change!); the singer removed his shirt, the guitarist started to but gave up after one arm. And then they fought: confrontational music (one simple and awesome noise riff repeated with screaming), hyper-confrontational antics (water thrown, innocent audience members assaulted), a wonderful “that was our last song—FUCK YOU,” and eight minutes later it was over.

Rethinking rock music can be perilous. KK Rampage certainly ain’t new to this noise game. But the unblinking admiration of the over-50 demographic indicate their performance is honest — that Mom and Dad have signed off on this experiment. And damn it if Mom ain’t always right.

Les Georges Leningrad endorses a similar anarchist worldview, but their Dadaist tendencies seem to be subsiding. The title of their first album, Deux Hot Dogs Moutarde Choux, translated to “Two Hot Dogs Mustard Cabbage,” is self-explanatory. Its most listenable moments swell with the frivolity of electroclash. Their latest, Sangue Puro, is equally shapeless and noisy, but the repetitive motifs and sonic expanses reveal a bullshit band that’s pretty damn good.

And so drummer Bobo takes the stage, covered in a preschooler’s tattoos and flexing like a welterweight with a decorative belt none too different than those WBC monsters. Keyboardist/guitarist Mingo shows up to the party in a black executioners outfit, and dynamic frontwoman Poney P is predictably mod in black with white polka dots. The band pulsed through only their greatest songs, filling the void with detached atmospherics. Everything sounded like Sangue Puro’s “Skulls in the Closet,” coughing up catchy dance beats and souring them with Poney P’s French-inflected English, which became just another instrument in the dank corner stage of the Empty Bottle.

The band performed with an earnest seriousness belying their irony, waxing the crowd with bows, waves, and jittery theatrics. It became, as they intended, too much to compute, and it’s not worth trying to figure out, especially when the hooks are so fantastic. Authenticity may not lie only in a troubadour’s fractured voice and rustic guitar, but maybe also in this indistinguishable din where only the sweet synth lead is clear.