If We are Scientists weren’t playing rock shows, they’d probably be performing bizarre three-person comedy routines and auditioning for college improv troupes, even though they’re not in college. Their shtick? Well, besides the super catchy, pummel-you-in-the- face-with-the-good-times rock ’n’ roll, they’re also fairly hilarious. It isn’t just bassist Chris Cain’s porno ’stache, high-waisted Greg Brady pants, and awesome pair of “rex specs” that he proudly wears to shows. Because really, looks aren’t everything, wouldn’t you agree? It’s more about how the CD cover for With Love and Squalor has the boys holding tabby cats on the cover and insists, inside, that their website “is not your shrink, it’s not your friend, it’s your boss, and you should start treating it like one.” They’ve also put out some truly inane music videos, like the one for “The Great Escape,” which has them being chased by someone in a bear costume. And then there’s their absurd FAQ:
Q: How did you get together?
A: It’s complex and a little embarrassing, but it’s something we can kind of laugh about now, however hesitantly. Michael had this huge crush on Keith; like, huge. And of course Keith had been friends with Chris for a couple of years at this point and had always nursed this gigantic crush of his own toward Chris, but always in secret. Now, Chris had never really thought of Keith as anything more than a friend, a good friend with a great body, so nothing had ever really happened between them, excepting the occasional drunken round of mattress dancing (literally; we’re not using ‘mattress dancing’ as a sexual euphemism, we mean literally dancing — bouncing along to music — on a mattress or a set of adjoining mattresses...”
Last night at the Paradise, W.A.S. were as good for their turn-up-the-radio songs about partying, drinking, and getting the girl as they were for their witty quips and physical displays of sheer muscle. I saw dudes yukking it up hardcore while their girlfriends doted on vaguely cute guitarist/vocalist Keith Murray and sigh-smiled at his little comic tales, probably wondering if his pants were in danger of falling down any further (this guy’s got the skinniest hips I’ve ever seen on a man). Collectively, W.A.S. look like they probably failed high school gym a thousand times over and were rejected by whomever they asked to prom. On stage, though, they’re the fucking quarterback. They’re the head cheerleader in short pleated skirt. They’re the people in your class you wished you could talk to without seeming like a desperate fool.
So they had that going for them. Also some wholesome, danceable, poppy post-punk of the loud and “isn’t this great, it’s summer and we’re at a rock show and I’m drunk and it feels damn good” variety. Check-your-sensitive-side-at-the-door, buy-an-overpriced-alcoholic-bev-and-shake-your-ass kind of stuff. My iTunes has W.A.S. categorized as “World” music — that’s another one of their jokes, I guess. Whatever, I do know that the girls that were standing in front of me were toasting the band like crazy for “Worth the Wait” and jumping up and down so much I worried they were in danger of breaking their heels off. They didn’t, though. Nothing bad can happen when Keith Murray has kicked his mic stand over and playfully insulted his roadie for the billionth time, then decided to fling it around again, hang off one of the stage lights for a couple of minutes, and end by grabbing drummer Michael Tapper by the arm and guiding him in hitting his cymbals over and over, like he was a precious human-sized puppet during “Cash Cow.” Yup, just a happy accident. After “It’s A Hit,” a hook-saturated, MTV-friendly booty shaker about fuck buddies gone wrong, Chris congratulated us. “Nice work, guys,” he said, as though we’d been doing all the work and standing in pools of our own sweat.
In lieu of an encore, W.A.S. celebrated their last U.S. show before a two month tour across Europe by inviting openers Au Revoire Simone to join them for a rousing cover of “Be My Baby.” These three girls, in their cool vintage dresses and awesome hippie hair, had been rather reserved throughout their set of semi-creepy keyboard indiepop. Now they were giving Cain suggestive hugs and pushing Murray out of the way so they could sing into his mic, acting charmingly mortified about how “wild” they had let themselves get by the end of the night. W.A.S. even had the one in glasses -- who appeared embarrassed just to be under the lights -- doing her best X-tina Aguilera impression. I’ve got to say, I feel sorry for the guy who wore the neon foam hearing-loss reduction plugs. My drums were totally busted by the end of the night, and I spent the T ride home screaming questions to my roommate, who couldn’t hear a damn thing either. My ears are still ringing right now, actually — I’m a little terrified, but at least I know W.A.S. did their fucking job.
