No Doctors | Theater Critic's Choice | Chicago Reader

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Arty, self-referential meatheads who always travel in a pack--more often than not accompanied by a gaggle of chicks--No Doctors are the frat boys of the local noise scene. All their tunes sound familiar in that scruffy-dude-handling-a-guitar-like-a-woman way, and if you didn't know better you might think they were a really, really horrible beards 'n' bell-bottoms cover band. Their dicks seem to channel their dadaist lyrics ("that bush smell like an Easter egg," "the coating on her carpet left a twinkle in my eye"), and singers Chauncey Chaumpers and CansaFis Foote drawl and scream like blue-balled horndogs over blistering clown-horn saxophone, raunchy blues-guitar wankery, and firecracker drums. Their recordings reek of whiskey, BO, and weed and are so blown out they might be killing your speakers--just the sort of thing that makes me lick my chops. But No Doctors live are even more intense: the second they start playing, the audience takes several steps back. This is one of the boys' last performances before they move to San Francisco. With Hrvatski, Seel, Environmental Encroachment, Secret Agent Bill, Icon/Prix, and Old No. 8. $8 in advance, $10 day of show; 18+. Friday, August 20, 8 PM, Abbey Pub, 3420 W. Grace; 773-478-4408 or 866-777-8932.

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