Plastic People of the Universe
Nothing warms the cockles of an American heart like a good story about scruffy but noble rebels duking it out for their freedom against an evil empire. In fact, the story of the Plastic People of the Universe and their circle of ultimately successful dissident artist friends would make a great movie. There are so many great climactic scenes to choose from: the moment in 1977 when the imprisonment of manager Ivan Jirous and saxophonist Vratislav Brabenec for “disturbing the peace” inspired the drafting of Charter 77, a human-rights manifesto by the opposition that would peacefully take over in 1989; the inauguration of Havel as president; the band’s first show in 16 years, in celebration of the 20th anniversary of Charter 77; the 1998 concert in New York, attended by longtime Plastic heroes Ed Sanders and Tuli Kupferberg of the Fugs; perhaps even bassist and de facto bandleader Milan Hlavsa’s 1998 gig at the White House, where at Havel’s request he cheerfully accepted the onus of backing Lou Reed. One only regrets that the Plastic People’s other hero, Frank Zappa, departed too soon to see Tipper Gore and the First Fleetwood Mac Fans politely applaud a man whose most famous song is about transvestites, prostitutes, and speed freaks. It brings a tear to the eye, even as the gorge rises.
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To the surprise of everyone who hadn’t heard their live reunion album, 1997, with new, relatively young guitarist Joe Karafiat, when the Plastic People took the stage at the Empty Bottle last week, they turned out to be a shit-hot and gnat’s-ass-tight funky prog machine, churning through an intense selection of songs drawn mainly from Egon Bondy. The set was nearly identical to the 1997 set, and the effect of regular, aboveground rehearsals was clear. Brabenec, through a beard bushy enough to house a squirrel, read song intros in English from a piece of cardboard, making explicit the allusions of scatological tunes like “Zacpa” (“Constipation”): “An important message from Prague. Constipation–in my belly is a hard stone of terror.” “Podivuhodny mandarin” (“The Wondrous Mandarin”), “Spofa Blues,” the hard-rocking “Elegie,” the dark “Prsi, prsi” (“It’s Raining, Raining”), and the stiffly funky “Toxika” were all long, expertly controlled, fierce blasts of throb and wail, with wah-wah pedals hooked up to everything that wouldn’t run away. Brabenec contributed his droll English recitations and Fun House-vintage sax; former guitarist Josef Janicek, now banished to keyboards, occasionally spewed Star Wars-vintage laser sound effects and synth washes. Karafiat is a fine hard-edged guitarist, but shaggy violist Jiri Kabes was the real wild man, using his heavily effected viola as a drone instrument, a rhythm guitar, or a voice crying in the wilderness. The packed house–in which I heard a lot of conversation in various eastern European tongues–devoured the music, with more enthusiastic dancing than I’ve seen at the Empty Bottle since the Ex played there.
