coming to Berb's soon...

Capital Influx Part II: Gogol
There's a rotten side of America. Britney Spears represents the ultimate decay. The faces I see from the stage here have the same look that you'd see in the Ukraine back in '86 when rock and roll first arrived. A lot of excitement comes from banging people over the head. When people see us they realize that not everything in this world is a goddamn gimmick. - Eugene Hutz, lead singer, Gogol Bordello
The Gogol Bordello band members were racing to get their equipment set up. The violinist did a sound check and the crowd noticed for the first time that, well, there was a violinist on the stage. And an accordian player! What the hell kind of band was this?
Barbara was already smirking.
The stage lights went dark. Gogol lead singer, Eugene Hutz strutted center stage, beer in one hand, microphone in the other, gypsy scarf around his head, red button down shirt open at the collar, gold plated sarong wrapped around black pants. One black Adidas sneaker in front of the other.
[Alcohol, incidentally, tends to be a major feature of Gogol Bordello shows--for both the band and the fans. From a recent interview: "The one time Eugene can remember being sober onstage was a disconcerting experience, so to speak: 'I was all worked up, covered in sweat and I thought, what the fuck am I, an athlete?'"]
The lights went up, Eugene took a gulp of beer and spewed it into the audience, just as the drummer slammed his drumstick against the cymbal, cueing the rest of the band. The ballroom erupted in an orgy of violin, accordian, guitar, sax, and a pounding bassline so heavy that it was difficult to tell whether the people in front of the stage were bobbing up and down in response to the rhythm or the sheer decibel force shaking the ground below.
Eugene climbed onto one of the speakers at the front of the stage and belted out the lyrics in growling heavily-accented pseudo-English, eyes bulging, and neck muscles straining. He leaped from the speaker back to the stage, wildly gesticulating as he screamed into the microphone. He tore the scarf from his head and threw it into the audience. The shirt went next. Within minutes he was writhing on the floor.
The crowd was both stunned and delighted. The ballroom floor was a sea of people jumping up and down, laughing hysterically, and screaming for more. By the second number, the audience had been worked into a near frenzy.
Eugene popped back up, grabbed a chair, put it on the speaker, and climbed even higher, drenched in sweat, hair and trademark moustache plastered against pale skin, every sinew taut on his lanky frame. He inhaled, threw his head back, and screamed from the top of his lungs, the muscles in his torso tensing as he wailed into the mic. You could almost see the heat rushing through his lungs, the force pummelling the back of his throat, vocal cords straining, as has expelled every last bit of sound and air from his body. The rest of the band futilely attempted to play their instruments with comparable force.
Eugene's thrashing around on stage had resulted in three parallel cuts across the ribs, as if he had been clawed by some animal, the little streaks of red glistening in the stage light. Just before Gogol launched into another number, a hipster in the crowd yelled "we want to see more blood!"
Eugene whipped around.
"You want to see fucking blood, you fucking...!"
Eugene took a running leap off the edge, grabbed him by the collar and dragged him onstage. The guy looked both terrified and ecstatic. Eugene pushed him around the stage a bit, yelling what I presumed to be Ukrainian expletives and then ceremoniously pushed him back off the stage. The audience cheered. Eugene lifted one of the speakers over his head as if he were contemplating heaving it into the crowd. (He probably was.)
By the last song, the stage was full. Cabaret girls banging drums and cymbals and belly dancers joined the band for the climactic finale. The audience screamed their approval.
Barbara was smiling. I was laughing, uncool suede coat now drenched with beer. Ken, the other lucky owner of a coveted ticket for the show, was still staring at the stage in disbelief.
"The funny thing is," I said, "they were a bit more subdued than last time."
Ken remarked afterwards, "You know, when you said they were 'like nothing you've ever seen,' I thought, 'oh, yeah, sure.' Now I don't know what to say."
He continued, "I really wonder what that guy Eugene is like in real life." (Rick said the same thing at the last one.)
A Village Voice reporter interviewed Eugene after he got kicked out of his DJ gig at the Bulgarian Bar for trashing the equipment and he said something to the effect of "sometimes I just get wasted and trash all my stuff. I'll be sitting in the tub the next morning with my CDs cuz they need to be washed. And that's a typical Sunday."
"I don't know," I replied. "I guess he just sort of...sits in his tub with his CDs."
Hutz apparently left the Ukraine with his family after the Chernobyl explosion. They lived very close. I can't help but think that may explain some of it.