By David Callicott
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The Deacon and his disciples, above.
It was a sold-out late show, with a sad mob of denied fans cluttering the sidewalk outside. Inside, a different story. It was a claustrophobic madhouse��������typical for a Deacon show, but maybe one notch higher. The Baltimore electro-wizard had his banquet table of knobs and gadgets set up on the floor, overseen from the stage by a glowing green skull and a murder of stroboscopic paparazzi. With the house lights completely turned off, Deacon started the set off with a non sequitur chant: �������Ethan Hawke. Ethan Hawke.������� And from there, things went ballistic, a stark-raving rave.
Photography by Alexander Wagner
We watched from the balcony above as the congregation of disciples pushed towards the alter of sound like a horde of Deadheads going for a gate rush. The throbbing crush warranted a break in the music and an admonishment from the emcee: �������This level of shoving is absolutely ridiculous!������� Ridiculous, yes, but it did look like fun��������if you are into hyperventilating, seizure-inducing stimulation, and suffocating human contact. Which, depending on the circumstances, we are. It was the most intense set we��������ve seen so far this week, and a breath of charged air after a slight overdose of indie rock. Deacon��������s beats and blips and vocal weirdness make for a good show, and his absolute command of his obedient people is remarkable. In the middle of the mayhem, the self-described �������narcissistic dickhead with delusions of grandeur������� brought the room to silence, asked for all of the lights to go up, and then cleared a path through the crowd for a chosen few to run through �������like you are Diplo, high-fiving everyone in the room.������� It was like an impromptu version of adult duck-duck-goose. Without the geese. Or the adults.
Responses to Dan Deacon's Delusions of Grandeur