Like pills dispensed by a punctilious pharmacist, picks patter into the palm of Quicksand (a.k.a. guitarist Adam J. Harmer). Preparing for Warmduscher’s night-before-Halloween Brooklyn show, the seasoned Fat White Family relation peers down at the plectrums. He sorts them with such care, they might all be part of a secret disco-punk-pop-funk ritual. Screams ricochet like bullets off his usual nonchalance, though the ghost of a grin haunts the corners of his mouth. Equally impervious to all the attention popcorning around them are Mr. Salt Fingers (Ben Romans Hopcraft of Insecure Men), whose cool aura always matches his bass work, the timelessly groovy Bleucifer (drummer Bleu Ottis), and solemnly adroit keyboardist Marley Mackey. Pretty amusingly, Clams Baker Jr./Craig Louis Higgins Jr./Mutado Pintado is vibing on the other end of the spectrum, smiling ear to ear. Witnesses can forever treasure the memory of him bopping through the crowd, popping down into a squat, and springing back up in an overtly Squidwardian dance move, disappearing backstage with a string of resulting squeals trailing behind him. Not many frontmen will even step out to be surrounded by the masses before performing, but good ol’ Clams doesn’t give a damn. He’s roaming around in a shuffling flock of conversationalists vying for his attention. He’s treating fans and friends to hugs and drinks in equal dosages. He’s cracking jokes and cracking up at comebacks. Even when the convivial racket drowns him out, the sheer melody of his sarcasm is as personality-packed as his punchy lyrics.
Quicksand
Clams Baker III
Ben Romans Hopcraft
Bleucifer
Marley Mackey
It feels like a dream that Warmduscher are already back at Baby’s All Right after their wild debut NYC show in March. If that déjà vu is hitting fellow concertgoers, they’re showing it by slugging pints and oozing accented enthusiasm. Their across-the-pond inflections make it feel like we’re somehow seeing Warmduscher on their own turf, magically traversing a portal that ties Brooklyn to London. Where do all these hip British punks hang out in NYC, and can we be pals? Clearly longtime enthusiasts like P&W, they nail the lyrics with game show accuracy while forming a pit of weaponized elbows. Sticky limbs and heavy boots become ever-present in the limited space around one’s skull. The proximity provided by the intimate venue hits like caffeine. The beloved party music makers, their all-caps, twenty-one-song setlist, and their hard-earned beads of sweat are within arm’s reach. The small space is refrigerated due to the permanently-swinging smoke-break door that leaks in crisp autumn air, so much so that coats are staying on. A full drink abruptly drenches my scalp and neck. Its hurler’s snide expression makes it clear it’s no accident, but it isn’t a targeted attack either; the whole room is brimming with that impish food fight energy. “We bleed this shit. We live this shit,” exclaims Clams, “Seven days a week.”
Warmduscher
Warmduscher
Warmduscher
Warmduscher
Warmduscher
Warmduscher’s max-volume beats rattle wiggling bones and wide-awake ear drums, but they’re not overpowering in the least. It’s a gritty urban soundscape that crackles with the embers of funk and richly glitters like skyscraper windows. Clams is in full-body storytelling mode singing about the familiar characters of their world, like “Fatso,” “Big Wilma,” and that dude from “I Got Friends” who’s got all the right contacts. Now extra noticeable after our full-band interview, Warmduscher’s bass and guitar lines stay scrupulously in sync. It’s a trick that Hopcraft and Harmer initially discovered by accident, and one that helps them pin down the elusive “dirge” they so passionately chase. Mackey’s flourishes on the keys are like the moody glimmers of a mirrorball floating above Warmduscher’s heavier impacts. Bleucifer’s brawny rhythm provisions reside within a flurry of continuous cheering. “Big daddy’s home,” Clams booms in a ringmaster voice. “But I must say, I’m one of a millllllion and millions and thousands of millions [sic] of big daddies who have come home to this beautiful fuckin’ place. And I give myself to all those before us: allll the artists that have been doing them things in the underground. New York CITY.” Under his standard attire – the dark mechanic coveralls emblazoned with the WD logo, worn by the band uniformly – he rocks a special Halloween Warmduscher shirt. It fits right in with the skeletons and ghouls in the pit; a cute commonality whenever he leaps off the stage to descend into the moshy lion’s den.
Warmduscher
Warmduscher
Warmduscher
Warmduscher
Warmduscher
During the addictive “Midnight Dipper,” savvy fans up front nearly jump out of their skin when their isolated voices suddenly reverberate through the room. Clams is sneaking the mic under the chins of unsuspecting karaoke participants. Take a tip from two firsthand experiences: you’d better be ready with those flip-flopping “finger”s and “trigger”s, because he sneaks up with that mic like he’s invented a new sport. The chasmic riffs of daily-playlist-staple “Hot Shot” prompt bloodcurdling participation on “Live is just a service / circus / service,” highlighting the wit of Warmduscher’s wordplay. “Whale City” further stokes the flames in all its “OI!”-laden glory. “Twitchin’ In The Kitchen” evokes more chemical paranoia than the coke scenes in Goodfellas. “1000 Whispers” earns sassy singalong action, but mainly on the titular phrase. The predominantly tipsy or otherwise influenced crowd stumbles through the rest, but they always know right when to stick that landing. After a raging fast start to the candy-coated “Disco Peanuts,” visual artist Jeanie Crystal (who directed Warmduscher’s “Love Strong” video) joins the band onstage to boogie without inhibition. Lacking some yardage in the sparkling fabric of her dress, her carefree moves audibly tantalize onlookers. When Clams sings, “The only person on the scene that knows how to do it best,” he motions at Crystal as if the song had been penned for her.
Warmduscher
Warmduscher
Warmduscher
Warmduscher
Warmduscher
Warmduscher’s nice and nasty finale of “The Sweet Smell of Florida” concludes with a brief political statement. “Thank you, Brooklynnnn! We are Warmmmmduscher. Go on doing what the fuck you do. Get that shit. Fuck those fascist motherfuckerssss! Fuck ‘em all. New Yoooork!” An unforgettable moment ensues quickly and silently. It says everything you need to know about Warmduscher’s ethos. Implying that their presence is stripper-level sexy, someone had previously rushed up to stick a twenty-dollar bill in his waistband. Laughing, he’d disposed of it on the floor of the stage as if it was covered in radioactive waste. At the end of the night, when the crisp Jackson is returned to him, he turns it down again and tosses the hot potato aside. In an era when touring bands tend to be fiscally challenged, such an act of subversive generosity warms your heart the way their irresistibly danceable music heats up your muscles.
Warmduscher
Warmduscher
Warmduscher
Warmduscher Setlist
Article: Olivia Isenhart
Photos: Shayne Hanley
