The man leans over to the clockwork bear and kisses it sweetly on its cheek, then brings it up to the mic and sings a duet with it...
The man leans over to the clockwork bear and kisses it sweetly on its cheek, then brings it up to the mic and sings a duet with it. Song over, the man picks a bag of sweets from a pouch by his side, and launches it into the audience. Strange behaviour, you might think. Hang tight. Things are gonna get a whole bunch weirder, and more wonderful, over the next 40 minutes.
[a]Fonda 500[/a] are so wrong, they’re brilliantly right. Half the songs feel like they’ve been written on a bet you know, ‘I [I]dare [/I]you to write a tune that takes in human beat-boxing, squonky keyboard wibbles and gonzo thrash-punk segues’. And [a]Fonda 500[/a], not being the type to double-dare you back, not only go ahead and do exactly that, but they make it an ultra-melodic gem that gets lodged in your skull and JUST WON’T BUDGE!!!
So, we get ‘8 Track’, a shout!shout!shout! shake’n’shimmy paean to crude home-recording techniques, and we get ‘Betamax’, wriggly brilliance squashed into the pop song format like joke-shop snakes in a can. And we get absolutely nish-all self-indulgent art-wank bollocks. Which is A Good Thing. A slanted take on slanted pop, [a]Fonda 500[/a] are further proof that the most pleasurable genius is the unlikely kind.