Aunt Dracula
Friday, December 5, Rhinoceropolis, 303-641-9809.
If there were such a thing as a postmodern post-apocalypse, and the world existed in a kind of warping shift of dark hues, Dalí-esque imagery and Technicolor, Philly's Aunt Dracula is the band that would write its surf music. Whorls of twisted, reverby guitar, trippy, demented vocals and shifting paces of mania and loopy languidness can be found in any Aunt Dracula song. But so can bombastic, aggressive, sharply rendered passages that suggest a psychotic breakthrough. The band's closest antecedents in weirdness would have to be In a Priest Driven Ambulance-era Flaming Lips, Alice Donut's Bucketfulls of Sickness and Horror in an Otherwise Meaningless Life, and the Butthole Surfers in general. Guitar rock this inspired and experimental is a rarity, and Aunt Dracula gives sonic adventurers much to sink their teeth into.
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