Eric (Todd d’Amour) is unemployed and struggling at the center of a strange, subtle love triangle. When his girlfriend Beth (Esther Barlow), an artist, returns from a six-month trip to Italy, Eric must distance himself from his friend Jared (played by the playwright, Michael Rubenfeld) in order to devote more time to his rocky relationship with Beth.

Initially, the nature of Eric’s friendship with Jared, a slacker editor of documentaries about genitalia and excrement, is ambiguous. Over beers, the two men profess love for each other; Jared stares at Eric with what looks like romantic longing. Says Eric, “I’m not abandoning you, Jared. I’m simply incorporating Beth back into my life.” A kiss seems imminent, but it does not occur. Instead, Jared reminds Eric that, when they say goodbye, they are “always hugging,” and so they embrace.

The tension amplifies as Eric and Beth attempt to make love for the first time in six months. The scene is painfully, hilariously awkward, revealing how out-of-sync with each other the couple has become. Even cuddling seems unnatural; Eric rests his head on Beth’s breast as though it’s in his way, interfering with his comfort. One wonders—would he be more comfortable with a man? With Jared?

Eric’s dependency on Jared grows more evident as he plies his friend for relationship advice, including sex tips. Beth finds the men’s emotional intimacy disturbing. Finally, Eric determines that the three of them should bond via tabs of ecstasy. This ludicrous idea results in the play’s most hysterical moments (suffice it to say that the line “She lives on in the roast,” could not be funnier). Under the influence, emotions heighten, and with Beth out of the room, Eric kisses Jared—evidently for the first time. In the two weeks that follow, Eric goes AWOL, during which period Jared connects with Beth over her photos from Italy, implies that he’s not gay, and kisses her. Eventually, the complications between all members of the miserable trio become so thick that for any character simply to leave the room, a tug-of-war of “I think you should go.”/“Should I?”/“Yes.”/“Are you sure?” must transpire.

Paradoxically, this fugue state of indecision drives the action of the play. Guiltiest of the inability to make choices independently is Eric. In his efforts both to please Beth and to sustain his friendship with Jared, Eric has no capacity to establish what he wants. He relies on Jared to articulate his needs—a job that Jared accepts with reluctance, perhaps only because it constitutes the foundation of their friendship and because Jared himself wants to be needed. Moreover, although Beth has traveled to Italy alone, she returns to an unsatisfying and imbalanced relationship with Eric and compulsively expects it to work. Ultimately, Eric proves to be the most spineless of the three. If he acquires any self-knowledge, it is that, when he is left with no one to lean on, he has no idea what to do with himself.

The small playing space of the theater suits the claustrophobic entanglements of the characters. The set is simple—a chair, a couch, and an easel comprise the furnishings. Two doors help indicate changes in scene locales. Even with the sparseness, there is enough movement onstage to hold the eye’s interest, yet the blocking never overpowers the real centerpiece, the interplay of the characters’ half-stifled emotions.

At times, the characters’ inability to express themselves becomes slightly tedious. In such instances, the rhythm of the dialogue, marked by staccato stops and incomplete thoughts, feels repetitive. While this pattern mirrors the characters’ ineptitude to actually decide anything, it also seems overused. Recurring exchanges such as “Are you lying to me?”/“No.”/“Are you sure?” and the aforementioned “You should go.” lines entail too much back-and-forth verification.

The actors handle the script with aplomb. As Jared, Rubenfeld conveys sensitivity and neediness through wistful gazes at d’Amour (as Eric), who masks his character’s insecurity with a touch of bravado that is never overplayed. Barlow makes Beth likable by avoiding the potential pratfalls of the angry girlfriend stereotype.

At one hour and twenty minutes, Spain ends abruptly, yet exactly when it should. The characters hold the viewer’s interest through the play’s final moments, but they have little more to say to each other. What has not been said is what they are incapable of saying.

The Bridge Theatre Company at Shelter Studios
244 W. 54th St.
12th Floor
212.352.3101
Tickets $10 with promo code “FIRST” at theatremania.com

About fifty devotees of all ages gathered in costume at the Webster Hall float, some arriving hours before the Halloween parade began. The day before, several hardcore supporters, led by the band’s web designer Brian Carter, had painted a giant banner, proudly displayed on the side of the float and proclaiming, “WORLD/INFERNO F.S. HALLOWMAS”.

As the band trickled in, rather than rush their idols, the Infernites continued to coolly chat amongst themselves. They shared covert swigs of rum. They smoked cigarettes. They seemed totally normal. I was naive.

The float took a long time to get rolling. We rounded a corner, stopped, and then waited. For an hour and forty-five minutes. Did the fans complain? Bail out? Riot? No. None of the above. Until the music began. And then, so did the riots.

As the band—still waiting for the float to progress—started to play, a mosh pit formed around lead singer Jack Terricloth. Sandwiched between the Inferno float and the Dreamland float staffed by house DJs and drag queens, the Infernites crowd-surfed in the street. They yelled, rather than sang, the song lyrics. Within nanoseconds, they went from calm, nonchalant float attachés to feral, euphoric, musically possessed maniacs.

At one point, a cheer broke out: “Tonight, we’re gonna, fuck shit up!” This is one of the anthem-like chants that Infernites know by heart. Another: “World Inferno, fuck shit up!” When repeated in combination with rampant moshing, the “fuck shit up” part becomes disturbingly believable.

At about 11:30 p.m., thinking I would be late to the show, I ran into drummer Brian Viglione and a small Infernite entourage exiting the A train in Brooklyn. I was relieved; clearly, a concert cannot start without the drummer. Brian, however, was jogging in a half-frenzy—understandably so—with fans trailing behind. Everyone shouted different opinions about which exit was correct, so getting out of the tunnel took a few minutes of trial-and-error. Upon reaching the street, the motley crew charged ahead, led by Viglione in his zoot suit and skeleton makeup.

And the concert? The eight-piece band took the stage. The audience became a writhing, swirling amoeba of madness. Vocalist Terricloth projected a friendly swagger that seemed to infect fans with worship. He was unafraid of standing on the edge of the stage, being constantly petted by adoring hands. Fans climbed onto the stage and dove back into the masses. No one tried to stop them. Over time, this took on the appearance of trust falls. There was simply no doubt that the jumping fan would be safely caught, welcomed back into the throng. Even Terricloth joined in the ritual.

I could say more in an attempt to further document the chaos, but instead I will end with an honest confession: I did not have the stamina or the courage to last through the entire show. Near the restroom, I overheard a young man complaining that he had lost his eyeglasses in the crowd. Moments later, in the hallway, I glimpsed another guy crying and holding one-half of a pair of glasses in one hand, the second half in the other.

I am a glasses-wearer myself. And so, taking my cue from the misfortunes of others, I left. However, I am not implying that the music of World/Inferno is not worth hearing. It crosses genres at every turn, and when the lyrics aren’t obscured by screaming fans, they are remarkably smart. If you’re curious, check out the band’s MySpace page. If you live dangerously, go to their concerts. If you survive, consider yourself blessed.

To say Monotonix are off the chain doesn’t even begin to do justice to the mayhem that their live shows inspire. Some new word or phrase needs to be invented to describe what happened at the Blender Theater on Saturday night. The Tel Aviv trio were accompanied by a throng of fans who had just attended the band’s earlier show in Williamsburg. The crowd tripled in size as Monotonix set up on the floor—not on the stage.

The anarchy that ensued was part metal, part Gogol Bordello. Frontman Levi “Ha Haziz” (Yomtov) Elvis doused the audience with water. He then dumped a trashcan onto the head of drummer Mordecai, who kept playing without missing a beat. Elvis then crowd surfed in the trashcan. Guitarist Moshe Vegas manned the bass drum, relocated by Elvis to the bar, while Elvis poured water down his bandmate’s shirt. The music never stopped.

Next, Elvis scaled the sound booth and stood on a ledge about twenty feet in the air. He decided not to jump off (probably a smart choice). Instead, like a Pied Piper, he led audience members, carrying the entire drum kit, out the door and into the hallway, where the crowd reformed and bounces refused to let anyone leave the building. Without stopping his drumming, Mordecai joined the rest of his kit in the hall, and Elvis crowd- surfed over him. Meanwhile, guitar riffs continued to rage in the auditorium.

The set cut off after about thirty minutes when recorded music blared out of the PA system, as though to say the band had overstayed their welcome. The band, now standing again on top of the bar, continued to play, and the audience was so charged that they probably would have stayed all night. Even so, the scene ended to make way for the next band in the lineup.

And believe me, nobody wants to follow an act like that.

A Place to Bury Strangers are aptly named. They inter listeners under a sonic shroud of strategically crafted feedback. Having seen the band open for Nine Inch Nails in Houston back in August, I arrived at the Bowery Ballroom armed with the most decibel-reducing earplugs sold at Walgreens. This purchase enabled me to actually hear the music, which sounds smartly executed when it’s not causing aural discomfort (hence my “pain-punk” classification of the band).

True to form, guitarist/vocalist Oliver Ackerman performed his signature de-stringing and swinging of his guitar at the end of the set. What makes the band particularly unique, though, is drummer Jay Spruce’s ability to accompany the other instruments’ feedback. For the guitar and bass throughout much of the songs, not a lot is going on. But, Spruce finds rhythm where there should be none and unearths nuances in the noise. As a trio, the band are keenly attuned to each other’s effects-laden improvisations—which are far more enjoyable when the listener’s ears are safely stuffed with hot pink plugs.

Do you know The Distillers? If not, you should.

Feminist alert: singer Brody Dalle is the deepest, throatiest, rawest gal in punk right now. She roared at the helm of The Distillers from 1998 to 2006. Since the L.A. band’s breakup, Dalle has joined an impressive lineup of musicians to form Spinnerette. Dalle and her Distiller bandmate Tony Bevilacqua team with Jack Irons (Red Hot Chili Peppers, Pearl Jam) and Alain Johannes (Queens of the Stone Age)—the resulting sound is a gnarlier Yeah Yeah Yeahs.

To date, Spinnerette has scheduled a handful of concerts in California with the touring lineup that includes Nicole Fiorentino, Bryan Tulao, Dave Hidalgo, Jr. The bottom line, however, is that wherever Brody Dalle goes, lovers of brash girl vocals and a hardcore/sexpot image will follow.

To hear or download the single, “Valium Knights,” visit the band’s MySpace page or official website.

The first single from Amanda Palmer’s solo album Who Killed Amanda Palmer? jabs playfully at both the Guitar Hero video game phenomenon and human complacency in general. If the bouncy chorus gets stuck in your head, don’t blame us!

And now it’s trivia time.

Q: Of what punk cabaret duo is Amanda Palmer one-half?
A: The Dresden Dolls

Q: Where is the Dolls’ other half, drummer Brian Viglione, while the band takes an indefinite hiatus?
A: Why, he’s touring with Brooklyn’s very own World/Inferno Friendship Society, of course!

Here’s World/Inferno performing “Tattoos Fade” in Chicago on September 26, 2008.

Want more? Check out the artists’ respective MySpace pages. For Amanda, click here. For World/Inferno, go here.

Photo by Flickr user colliding light used under the Creative Commons

This weekend is the last chance this year to see the country’s only “ten-in-one” circus full of “freaks, wonders and human curiosities”, as described on the Coney Island website. Admission is a paltry $7.50 and features such performers as Insectavora, Donny Vomit, and Scott Baker the Twisted Shockmeister. What better way to bid the summer of 2008 goodbye than with a stroll through this collection of living oddities? It’s potentially thrilling… and definitely cheap!

Coney Island Sideshows by the Seashore
September 19, 20, 21
1:00 p.m. to 9:00 p.m.

If you haven’t heard of Killola, the pop/punk band from Los Angeles whose lead singer Lisa Rieffel makes Debbie Harry look like Maria von Trapp, then mosey on over to the Knitting Factory on Saturday and prepare to be wowed.

And, if the $8 online ticket price is too rich for your blood, you can download the band’s entire album I Am the Messer for free on their MySpace. That’s right. Free music.

The Action Design, also hailing from California and boasting a female vocalist (Emily Whitehurst), co-headline the evening. Check out their tunes here.

Killola, The Action Design
Saturday September 20
Knitting Factory
8:00 p.m.
$8 ADV, $10 DOS

Photo: Flickr user wallyg used under the Creative Commons

For a mere $10, decide for yourself Who Killed Amanda Palmer? at the New York screening premiere of six music videos directed by Michael Pope. The videos weave a mystery surrounding the fictional death of—you guessed it—Amanda Palmer, whose solo album of the same name also debuts on Tuesday.

Short films “Bony Lil’s Distraction” and “Bony Lil’s Creation,” created by Pope and collaborator Zea Barker, will also be shown, accompanied by a live original score.

Who Killed Amanda Palmer?
Tuesday September 16
Joe’s Pub
7:00 p.m.
$10

For the super cheap (or super broke), the Palmer videos are posted on YouTube.

On Sunday, August 31, performance artist Irina Danilova invited audience members to shave her head. Bald.

The Quadrennial Shaving Performance was hosted by The Tank, a non-profit organization that provides space to emerging artists of all disciplines, and occurred at the Manhattan Children’s Theatre. It was, however, not child’s play.

Nor was it a joke, a political action, or a narcissistic exhibition of de-beautification. Rather, Danilova offered an informal ceremony commemorating the sixth anniversary of what has become a regular ritual in her life.

Every four years since 1984, Ukrainian ex-pat Danilova has shaved off all her hair. The first shaving took place in Communist Moscow and was executed by friends at the artists’ request; Danilova then sold her hair for one kilogram of butter.

The circumstances of each subsequent shaving have varied over the years. In 1992, the private tradition became a public performance, immediately prior to Danilova’s move to America. She likened the action to personal sacrifice: “You shaved for monastery; you shaved for America.”

The artist, whose English reveals a strong Russian accent, was adorned Sunday night by long, coarse, flowing, salt-and-pepper hair. By the end of the evening, her scalp was stubbly—made so by three volunteers from the audience—and signed in permanent marker by every person present.

“It’s a performance about loss,” explained Danilova. Moreover, the collection of braids saved from each shaving “show time,” she says, and compares the growth of hair to a timeline. Each thick braid, the first portion of her hair to get chopped, is stored in a plastic tube, added to her collection, and displayed at future performances. The collection of braids now consists of six.

Film projections of previous haircuts accompanied the performance—as did brown Russian bread, pickles, and free shots of vodka. Danilova indicated that the liquid courage was for anyone who might need it in order to participate in the hair cutting or head signing. Clearly, the bravest person present was none of the volunteer shavers or the audience members; without a doubt it was the artist Danilova, who shared her personal loss as a public performance.

Photos by Ignat Ayzenberg and Hiram Levy