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Yard Dogs Road Show Is A Musical Circus Not To Be Missed

by T.O. Lawrence
02/29/2008

Do you like fire eaters, belly dancers and head-rattling teeth-shattering music? Do you appreciate the scream of a circus sideshow ringmaster, plenty of booze and lots and lots of pretty lights? Then the Yard Dogs Road Show is for you, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. This show is not for the sensitive ear.

Conquering the woes of vaudeville in the age of the talking picture is not an easy task, but one the Yard Dogs perform with gusto. A performance troupe borne from the traditions of old-western saloon shows and depression-era cabaret, you might get an idea of them from watching Carnivale or Chicago but without the benefit of their humor, noise and insanity.

Formed in 1998 as a four-piece jug band under Eddie Joe Cotton, who has performed with They Might Be Giants, Dave Eggers, and Jane’s Addiction, the group was joined by others like Eenor from Les Claypool’s Flying Frog Brigade and the Black and Blue Burlesque Troupe. Forever “on the bus” and spreading pure oddness, they mix everything from jazz, to funk, to rock into some bizarre acid-head gumbo that tastes a little off but makes you feel all right.

Even on first entering the audience, you can tell that this will be different. Caricatures, cartoons and freaks of all assortments wander around the place making generally weird folk seem like squares. When the lights finally go down, the crowd practically glows in the dark with all the jellified weirdness in their eyes. This is a bunch meant for booze and chemical perversion. They are Rocky Horrors without all the song and dance, but oh, was that ever going to change.

A ragtag group of musicians vaguely resembling the Muppet Show band burst out in a tin-horn rock cacophony sounding like a mix between circus music and New Orleans jazz. The lyrics are creepy ringmaster slogans instead of poetry and get across exactly what sort of circus this is shaping up to be. Already you can spot a one-handed trumpet player and an estranged relative of Cousin It. Suddenly: Explosions! Bursts of light!

The stage is filled with the golden glow of the Black and Blue Burlesque Troupe, who finally give some structure to the noise. The rhythm slows to pace with their act, adding a beat of funk to the mix and suddenly, you realize why fan dances used to be the rage. Showing just about anything but everything, this is about as close to Vegas as I’m ever going to get (and if you don’t know what pasties are yet, go look it up on Wikipedia. Trust me; it’ll do you some good.). But go get another drink to relax, because this is just the beginning of the show.

The stage seems like something out of a Rob Zombie concert or a Terry Gilliam movie. It bursts with putrid color that looks like it would be sticky to the touch and explodes with the occasional flourish of glitter on cue to a dance step or a punch line. The dust on the Yard Dogs' costumes makes you think they’d been around since the twenties, while the burlesque troupe shone with the glamour that comes from tassels, elaborate silk embroidery and over 10 bazillion freaking sequins.

Everything in the place seems a character in itself, right down to the individual songs. Broadway Cash, a skinny hobo who resembles Frank Sinatra on a bad day, crooned a 50s-style love song that brought up fond memories of Blue Velvet but left much to be desired. A subsequent act, the Guitar Kid, was a sad parody of Jimi Hendrix without the fun of a burning guitar. But it wasn’t really all that terrible, it’s just that the shtick was way better than the music.

Old Scarecrow, their resident old loony guy rode the crazy-drunk audience into yet another round with a bass-thumping drinking ballad, and though the song was pretty forgettable, it got the audience out and singing and added some hilarity as he feigned passing out mid-song. The burlesque troupe also did an astounding job of dolling it up as life-size plastic toys dancing to a depressing girl-power whiner with vocals that reeked of the Cranberries. The stars of the show were definitely the musicians as performers, rather than musicians as producers of music.

But despite their shortcomings in sound, the Yard Dogs are true vaudevillians and rely more on their attitude than their music, supplying visual spectacle rather than auditory genius, dancing like punk-rock loonies all the while. A novel idea, considering the dull studio acts we see these days. So, if scantily clad women and down-home hobo music are your thing, then head on out to the Road Show. They’ll have a drink or five waiting for ya.

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