MC Traciotomy | Theater Critic's Choice | Chicago Reader

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MC Traciotomy

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When this New Orleans lifer takes the stage, for the first few minutes you might think you're in for a sort of ODB-meets-Lawrence Welk thing--some white dude in a fusty golfer getup saying crazy shit over cream-puff funk. But that's just the bait in his bait-and-switch routine: Right when you start to get a little comfy, maybe even bored, he starts sounding like drugs. I'm not even sure which drugs. He constricts his vocal cords until he sounds like a cartoon anus, rapping about sucking on "boobie sacks," and the music takes a sharp left turn--soon he's growling nonsense over whacked bursts of Drum Buddy, downstairs-neighbor bass bumps, whooshing static, shattered-glass synth ramblings, and what sounds like a snake charmer playing a car horn, while incomprehensible vocals with a tone like some psychedelic brass instrument natter in the background. His songs dilate and contract, so it's hard to tell if they're hectic or lazy--some sections feel interminable, others snap shut before you have a chance to really hear them, and the total effect is to destroy your sense of how much time has passed. It's best not to struggle when you fall into his quicksand traps--what I want to know is how the hell he navigates these tracks himself. He Not In and Microshards open this show, the last in Reversible Eye's "Public Image Enemy" series. See also Tuesday. a 7 PM, Reversible Eye Gallery, 1103 N. California, 773-862-1232, $10. A

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