The Beta Band
The Beta Band
[Astralwerks]
Rating: 8.6
I slipped into a dream.
I stood in a shallow valley. Soft hills rose around me and seemed to slowly
inflate. The earth breathed in the clean atmosphere and exhaled with swaying
blossoms. My feet were wet, cool. I looked down and found myself standing in
a swift brook of pale lager. Tremors shook the ground as large beasts
approached, their presence announced by a whistling chorus. I sunk into a
fighting stance.
Over the nearest hill trod brown beasts carrying pink blobs of flesh. The
first beast came into recognition. It was a baby riding a bear. A small pack
of the mysterious riders lumbered closer and finally stopped before me. The
leader baby-- at least, I surmised that he was the leader baby, as he wore a
diaper woven of spindled silver and carried a gem- studded scepter-- raised
a hand and spoke to me in a rich, velvet voice.
"Stranger, please remove yourself from such violent stature. Fear not, our
beasts are gentled. Please come with us, we have much to show you," he said.
I could do little but follow. The baby may not have offered much resistance,
but the bears were another matter. The babies seemed to have an unconscious
bond with their transport. A fight would have to wait for more opportune
times.
"Please, Stranger, come."
The babies rode their bears to a deep thicket. The leading bear yawned,
emitting a deep tone. A small opening in the thicket widened to accompany
the strange party. I walked after them. The babies dismounted in the thicket
and gathered around a glowing space heater. They removed their ornamental
spears and earrings, which I now noticed to be crafted from whittled pieces
of vinyl LPs and radiant CDs. Several robots tended to the bears.
"Please, Stranger, sit by our space heater and drink up. Drink," the Leader
Baby said with a chuckle, passing a skin of the flowing ale. "Now we make
music."
A band of babies and robots gathered inside a circle. They held instruments
forged from scavenged junk and wood. With a clamor, the band began singing
to the tune of "Mr. Sandman."
"We're the Beta Band and we're nice and clean," they began. The robots kept
a clumsy rhythm. After a few verses, the song slipped into an intoxicated
rap before finally settling on sloppy Elvis karoake. It was the one of the
most deranged sounds I'd ever heard, both exotically insubstantial and
unnecessarily piecemeal. The leader baby leaned and whispered in my ear.
"Don't pay too much attention to this. It's just our custom. The performers
must first expel all of their musical demons. The invoke their muse with a
joyous cacophony. Through this, the audience hears all of the band's
exaggerated styles and can bear witness to their spirit."
It hardly mattered to me. The band had already begun a beautiful epic. Built
upon subtle chugging and a thumping march, remarkably similar to the opening
seconds of the Stone Roses' "Bye Bye Badman," spread to infinity. "It's Not
Too Beautiful" dragged me into bliss.
Occasionally, the robots would emit the symphonic sounds from the theme to
"The Black Hole," which strangely fit into this xynophillic jam. The band
did not have a singer, per se. Rather, a totem of four babies stood
stoically in the midst of this wonderful racket and sung with echoing
harmonies. Their voices were both indolent and inspired. I didn't want it
to end.
Alas, the song faded away into a minimal chant over skeletal beats and
blips. My host informed me this song was called "Simple Boy." It sounded
like slothful, sylvan techno-- like Underworld for drugged squirrels.
Suddenly the band broke into a full- on jam, filled with pots, pans,
acoustic guitars, steel drums, and strings. It was Pet Sounds as
performed by rednecks from Tolkein's Middle- Earth. As the performance
continued, I increasingly fell into a intoxicated rapture. I remembered
little, but cared not. Beat- boxing, scratching, wood- blocks, and bongos
swirled in my brain. This was stream- of- consciousness soul from
somnambulists. Forest noises were rock n' roll. Rock n' roll was forest
noise. The thick mix of instruments and sounds seemed far off, emitting
from deep inside ancient trees and through the robots' cracking speakers...
I woke in a pool of Newcastle and drool. No clothes covered my sleek and
shapely form, aside from boxers and a torn undershirt. A pulsing headache
reminded me of the intense music from the night's dream. It was too much to
absorb at once. Yet, it called me back. I wanted to splash in those lager
streams and skip around that hodge- podge hip-pop orchestra. It had been so
psychedelic, yet not excessively experimental. Nothing else sounded like
that.
As I rolled out of bed, I felt a piece of platic jab into my ribs. It was a
compact disc. On it was a note scrawled in Sharpie: "Stranger, you have
visited our land. You can take nothing but this. Play it when you need
escape from the city, the grind, the din. The Beta Band can save you."
-Brent DiCrescenzo