Spoonfed Tribe

Spoony Love:

Spoonfed Tribe

by Dean “Gather The Tribes, We Must Avert This War!” Bonzani

7-24-04

Ahhhhh, the Band Who Cannot Be Described. What’s a music writer to do?

The official Spoonfed Tribe website greets the intrepid journalist with these ominous words: “To describe a Spoonfed Tribe gathering would take too many words, talking too small to measure what is gained by the actual Experience of it all.”

The gauntlet is down, the challenge is accepted. The official Spoonfed press CD-ROM that arrived on my desk at the eleventh hour is blank. A cruel joke? The gods are laughing.

I am not to be daunted. A treasure trove of MP3’s are to be found at www.spoonfedtribe.com, along with a RAM-boggling cache of band photos. Armed with rich visual and auditory information, I upload. My cortex heaves and seethes, and the words come.

The Spoonfed Tribe “gathering” is a interplanar conjunction of flesh and technology— a powerful nexxus point where corporeality’s thin veneer is ripped away by the brute force of raw male essence, manifest in the form of six-plus muscular young North Texans, playing percussion and melody instruments at high volume to undulating crowds of entranced dancers. It is a wild rumpus.

Imagine the crazy, post-apocalyptic vehicles from “Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome,” built from the dead hulks of an extinguished culture’s petroleum lust, barreling down on you across a ravaged plain denuded of all life, under a sky of sickly, burning magenta. Spoonfed Tribe is the music you hear as hundreds of tons of steel and rubber close on you at speeds topping 100 miles per hour. You are dressed in a terrycloth bathrobe, with swim fins for shoes.

Spoonfed Tribe is guitar, bass, synthesizers, turntables, and many, many drums. It is sweaty, bearded, half-naked men in the prime of life, dressed in odd costumes beneath mind-altering light beams, pounding out the rhythms that make you lose your sense of propriety and regain your sense of primality. Spoonfed Tribe opens the floodgates of passion, synchronizes the hemispheres, cleans the sunrooves of perception, and coats audiences with a fine mist of pheromones (which consist of two or more chemicals which must be blended in the proper proportions in order to become biologically active.)

Sometimes Spoonfed Tribes sounds like Jan Hammer jamming with Ted Nugent and the UCLA marching band’s drumline while jetboats jump over them from one large flaming boat ramp to another large flaming boat ramp.

Spoonfed Tribe are animals. Animals in man form. Upright, walking Man Beasts. Very loud and savage bipedal Man Beasts. Their perspiration can heal blindness.

Spoonfed Tribe’s members have names like Kabooom, P.Green36, ShoNuff, Omegaphone, GouffahttsgarbonzoQCbockusbaby-hueybuckbuffpuff McboyMcboy, Jerome57, Egg Nebula, and the unlikely Daniel Katsuk. They’ve turned out three albums, “We Are Part of the Problem,” “Ulikdissegeough,” and the nearly unpronounceable, “Spoonfed Tribe.” They often play at festivals, some of which charge outrageous amounts of money for bottled water.

The July 31 appearance of the Tribe at Flagstaff Brewing Company will be enhanced by a costume party, with prizes for best costume.

Those in the know will go dressed in day-glo.

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Spoonfed Tribe at Flagstaff Brewing Company, Saturday, July 31st. All of the lesbians will be at Ani DiFranco, so come on down and get slithery with the boys.

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