An enigmatic frontman is always good for reviews and press (even here, yes), but the physical theatrics force the other side of the question: Is it for real?
"I don't do what I do to be violent or harmful in any way," Spiegel says. "What's coming out on stage from the band should be an outward expression. I do what I do because I'm moved to action; the music moves me in that way. It's not a conscious act. I'm not there thinking, 'Now, I'm going to do this the second song, and then I'm going to do this the third song.' I'm trying to incite people to be motivated, to interact, to be creative. Whether they hate us or not, whether they love us or not. Whatever is going on, it's better than being passive."
Now they're playing with power (from left): Brandon Richier, J.R. Spiegel, Carlos Becerra and Cesar Gomez are the Volts.
Details
With the Pin Downs and the Volts
9 p.m. Friday, September 29
$5
303-320-9200
Lion's Lair, 2022 East Colfax Avenue
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Passivity is what Spiegel and his mates abhor, and so is the thought that his tactics are perceived as shticky or contrived. "I'm sure there are people who show up to see this guy go nuts," Richier says. "But I also think the majority come to see the music."
By the booking numbers, there's little to discount Richier's theory. In July this year, the Volts played five shows. Five isn't a big number to, say, Britney Spears, but it is to a working man like Becerra, who can only perform on the weekends (and who, even then, is giving up time with his children to be in Denver). The Volts' recent surge in popularity -- and the increased numbers at their live shows -- is convincing the band that Spiegel's glass-throwing, body-slamming "shenanigans" aren't the reason why the people want to see and hear them. The more they play, the more familiar faces they see, the more people they hear singing the words to their songs. That is the simple evidence.
"If it were just about stage presence," Spiegel says, "they wouldn't come back. They'd see us once, and that would be enough."
When no one is looking, the Volts practice in a small basement at the corner of Sixth and Corona every Sunday at 4 p.m. They'll play one set, record it, listen to it upstairs and then go back down for another thirty-minute session.
This process goes on three or four times, until precisely 7 p.m. when they all gather on the couch to watch The Simpsons. After that, Becerra and Gomez make the 45-minute drive back to Fort Collins, and Spiegel and Richier go their way.
Downstairs, the space they use to jam in is a laundry room the size of an office cubicle. The painted white brick walls and low ceiling are soundproofed with patches of aging carpet and foam padding. Exposed water pipes run just a few inches overhead. A bare, interrogation-style light bulb hangs in the center of the square.
The quarters are so small, all four bandmembers face one another in a tight circle, nearly touching each other. This underground box smells like sweat and Snuggles fabric softener.
When the Volts start playing, everything is loud except Spiegel. The head of his microphone is missing, and his PA is low and staticky. The instruments drown out his voice.
But he keeps singing, leaning into the microphone stand at just the right moments. When the second song comes, Spiegel is getting warmer, moving a little bit more, tapping his hands at his sides. By the third, he's stomped out the beat a few times but still hasn't gotten it on even though the band is tight.
By the fourth song, Spiegel is ready. Gomez lights up the guitar intro, Becerra drum rolls into a comfortable spot and Richier b-lines his way in. They're waiting for one more part.
No one can hear him. No one can see him. He's looking at a brick wall with carpet over it. He closes his eyes, pulls the hair from the back of his own head with one hand, and puts the microphone beneath his mouth with the other.
Then the guy from the Volts starts to freak out.
