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"You dropped your condom, sir." It took me a moment to realize that the friendly house manager at P.S.122 was talking to me. I followed her gaze to the floor, where, at my feet lay a small card that had slipped from my program. It read, "Make Love Not War". Inside, sure 'nuff, was my very own latex rubber, to have and to hold courtesy of local retro-haberdasher Lord of the Fleas. Thus began my journey hurtling headfirst down the Radiohole and head-on into this ebullient if enigmatic quartet's latest offering, "None of It: More or Less Hudson's Bay, Again". And while the trip may not be exactly through the looking glass, it is most definitely from behind the nitrous mask. That, and a shitload of Pepsi. On second thought, make that a dogsled of Pepsi. This is a cosmic mush slicing across the frozen tundra of collective tortured souls, after all. Imagine, if you haven't already tried it, watching "Ice Station Zebra" on some really good acid and witnessing stoic Rock Hudson melt into a pair of questing female twins/split psyches/fucked-up bitches as they swirl in a delirious downward spiral of murder, death, the possible second coming of Christ, Pepsi, and the swinging Hudson Bay club scene while up top behind them, a tattooed bald guy in red overalls spins syrupy vintage luau vinyl upon a really unsafe-looking swaying platform. Later, there are lengthy monologues mostly buried in a murky sound mix and some pretty damn fine left-handed acoustic guitar playing by group members Erin Douglass, Eric Dyer, Maggie Hoffman and Halvorsen Gillette. And Pepsi. They all power down lots of Pepsi, reliably dispensed on cue by the strong, silent dispensing machine standing guard stage left. Imagine, if you haven't already, Rock Hudson as a soda machine. Imagine Rock Hudson as a Pepsi machine/monolith in Kubrick's "2001". I know, I know, but it makes sense when you're tripping, and "None of It" is nothing if not a trip. When the glowing, monolithic Pepsi machine/ beast is wheeled centerstage near the end of the trip in a post-ironic Ultimate Statement of Product Placement, I thought for sure DJ Overalls was going to bust out with a trance mix of "Thus Spake Zarathustra". In retrospect, that may have been too obvious, too coy, too clumsily cognizant of a pop culture past where, in the world of Radiohole, there is only the moment, captured and reverberated into an infinity of despair and isolation, like the live sounds captured and strained through their onstage mix board. For while they definitely draw upon the storied histories of such Maestros of Enigmatic Theater as Richard Foreman and the Wooster Group, Radiohole is far from derivative, investing their quasi-psychotic journey into the cryogenic conscience of Eurocentric manifest destiny with a sculpted blend of anarchy and control that is uniquely their own. Simply put, this is fucked-up theater at its finest. This is theater that both completely involves you in the moment and has you asking, "what the fuck...?" after that moment has passed. This is theater that does not explain itself, does not beg you to like it, does not even give a shit if you understand it. This is theater of anarchy, anger, confusion and chaos. This is theater of the moment, of the now. It is here. It is before you, it is all around you. And then it is gone. What is left behind is an empty stage and a bunch of squashed Pepsi cans. But what Radiohole gives you to take away is much more -- an avalanche of images, of possibilities, of unanswered questions, of desire for more as you stumble back out into the frozen night, clutching your complementary condom. "None
of It: More or Less Hudson's Bay, Again" Radiohole at P.S.122,
150 1st Ave., NYC. 212.477.5288. Wed.-Sun., 7:30PM. Thru December
22. $15. Copyright © 2002 The Write Word, Inc. All rights reserved. |
