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Pissed!

Natalie Would?

The most bizarre, craven fantasy is much, much better than the real Merchant of the Mundane in the flesh

By Johnny Angel

RECENTLY, THE PUBLICIST from Natalie Merchant's label East-West urged me to consider the diva's solo debut, Tiger Lily, for review. I declined. I've never enjoyed Nat's work with 10,000 Maniacs, mainly because of her voice. That weird warble of hers, which sounds like a cross between Eleanor Roosevelt and Janis Ian, has always induced the cringies in my house. Lyrically, her drippy plaints remind me of every oversensitive, clove-ciggie-huffing high school grrrl in a stairwell crooning Joni Mitchell songs. Yeccch!

The one real-life encounter I had with the Queen of Secretary Rock was in Boston during 1987, when my joke-rock sextet the Swinging E's were opening a Throwing Muses/10,000 Maniacs bill at Northeastern University. The humorless starlet was appalled at our unprofessional buffoonery (our lead singer was too blotto to remember lyrics and we were 86'd by the school right after our set), and was openly hostile backstage. A real pisser.

So, when one of NM's tunes came over the PA at Gold's during today's workout, a bizarre fantasy crossed my endorphin-soaked cortex. Picture a sold-out Civic, the house hushed in excited yet muted anticipation as the lights went down, their would-be wood nymph about to twirl them into yuppie Valhalla. The intro tape booms out a loud, woofer-busting rendition of "Thus Spake Zarathustra" and--with dry-ice/smoke bombs bursting--out comes Natalie Merchant, decked out head-to-toe in a big, pink bunny suit!

Hopping madly, limbs flailing, she signals the backup band to start into a Goth-drenched minor-key version of "The Hokey Pokey" which the singer begins intoning in an ancient Gaelic dialect and climaxes the shuffle with a deft James Brown split. Then the band roars into a wild medley of Arthur Brown's "Fire" and G.G. Allin's "I Wanna Fuck You," during which she climbs to the top of the amp stack and leaps off into the astonished throng.

Writhing from seat to seat, Merchant grabs the fans' gifts of chocolates and flower bouquets--they actually bring these to her shows--and commences to stuff half of said items into their gaping kissers, the other half up her jumper while screaming into the mic, "Screw this lame shit, I want drugs!"

Swimming over the crowd members' heads, Little Natalie collapses onto the Civic boards, gamahuching the mic, glottalising something like "ldkjfhgbr sbsndbnfnbf" as the band segues into a full-bore rip on "TV Eye." The staid tofu-ites, horrified yet galvanized by their icon's apparent seizure, pick up the vibe and subsequently destroy the entire house, beating each other senseless with Evian bottles, then pouring onto Pacific Avenue to riot until the National Guard arrives.

Now, that I'd review!

Check out the Johnny Angel Web site.

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