Small Sins / Scissor Sisters // Showbox // 3 October 2006

Honestly, I went to the Showbox last night to see Small Sins. I was really interested to hear how Thomas D’Arcy’s hushed album of laptop-pop sounded once he’d put together a band to bring it to the stage. Little did I expect that their set would be finished when I arrived a little before 10 pm. Oh, the Showbox. How do I routinely fail to predict your setlist times? I’m sure there’s a complicated formula involving number of bands on the bill, range of ages admitted, night of the week, quantity of kids with backpacks camped outside in the hours before doors, and phase of the moon, but I have yet to deduce it. A trustworthy report confirms that the band “sounded pretty good” (high praise, given the source). So I’m stuck sitting here listening to songs from their website, and checking out the band’s profile [myspace], feeling a little like a jerk for missing a band who put me on their list, and hoping that the crowd who showed up early enjoyed their set.

Which brings me to a second problem. I showed up in entirely the wrong outfit. A vintage Expo ‘86 t-shirt and corduroy jacket seemed perfectly appropriate for Canadian indie rock, but felt modestly out of place among all of the glittery eye shadow and feather boas. Probably some sort of karma repayment plan. After all, I did flee the Scissor Sisters show at Coachella this summer when my sun-exhausted psyche refused to cope with the massive crowds of people not seeing TOOL or Art Brut descended on the Outdoor Theater. I was more than willing to make up for that mistake last night, where the Scissor Sisters had redecorated the stage to give it the feel of a well appointed elevator lounge invaded by a troupe of costumed performers.

Although he would eventually shed most of the layers, Jake Shears arrived wearing a skin-tight, near-holographic, ruby sequined tuxedo. From the moment he strutted onto the stage, the crowd was in the palm of his hand. The band played a mix of songs from their self-titled debut and the just-released / leaked-a-while-ago Ta-Dah, gradually working the showgoers from fevered anticipation to borderline dance party.

Despite the glam presentation, the impromptu kicklines, the refusal to accept tiaras thrown from the crowd, and the way Jake occasionally yet inadvertently channels Elton John, the band knows its way around rock and funk conventions. They dedicate “Laura” to the First Lady, compliment the northwest fashion in the audience, and call upon the audience to dance like nobody’s looking at them (”the future of human kind is wearing our souls on the outside”). This, combined with unleashing “Comfortably Numb” tips the audience into jubilant mayhem. Amid the overwhelming goodwill marked by inflatable flamingoes being passed overhead, a couple people are dragged out for rowdiness [what is it about the Showbox?], which leads Ana Matronic to propose a solution for world peace (”no fisticuffs, only vogueing”). Nice, but I doubt it will get the band invited to the White House to perform anytime soon.

By the time they’re playing “Land of a Thousand Words”, Jake’s shirt is long gone and he’s on his back doing bicycle execercises in front of the drum kit. The floor is bouncing like a trampoline, and everyone’s really really happy, dancing with friends and strangers. They make an exit long enough everyone to stomp and cheer and demand an encore. When they return, the disco beat of “I don’t feel like dancing” leaves everyone actually feeling a lot like dancing. Then, a cake with gaudy Erotic Bakery style vagina decoration is produced to celebrate the now-leotard-wearing lead singer’s 28th birthday. We sing “Happy Birthday”, they sing “filthy/gorgeous”, and everyone goes home satisfied. And so ends the gayest night I’ve ever witnessed at the Showbox.