Not many artists force me into the uncomfortable position of waxing philosophical about their performance. I don’t like it because it conjures bad memories of drinking coffee at 4am and yelling at a lamp. You don’t like it because you feel like I’m drooling on you. So thanks Theodore Robinson. Thanks much.
On a certain level, I’m concerned I’m just not hip enough. Be that as it may, there was a show where he dropped his guitar, galloped off stage, released a roll of tinfoil by the door. He unraveled it like an astronaut with limited means repairing his ship. He proceeded with sharpie, scrawling verses, one of which included the word Love. The foil ripped, the mosquitoes played on, the experience was both kinky and heartrending. At another show he adorned his band with squishy strobe light rings. He killed the lights and howled; we wanted to howl along with him but when we opened our mouths no sound came out. And then that show where he built a shrine for an exquisitely deceased crab… He howls and turnips rage and if you listen closely enough, bizarre references emerge. Tiny fountains of Japanese Pop, the Downtown Scene, Sorcery, pulsing underneath this carpet of deep blues, railroad hymns. Ted makes me feel like I am at a birthday party in an EE Cummings poem. He makes me want to do things like pass out cough drops to everybody on earth. – Catch Ted Robinson w/ Suspenders @ Zebulon on 8/22. – Valerie Kuehne
