Tales of a computer-age punk: Black Moustache at Don Hill’s

Originally published in Fashion Wire Daily on Nov. 13, 2003

For whatever reason, the thin mustache on the thin man is an image that will forever be branded as the ultimate symbol of sleazy cool. Whether sported by John Waters, bad-boy photographer Terry Richardson, or the anonymous trucker hat-wearing Williamsburger, the mustachioed man has a firm place in the hipster universe. Last year’s teen issue of the latest holy bible of hip, K48 magazine, even featured an advice column written by a Mr. Moustache, who humorously offered his wisdom that upper lip facial hair could be remedy for any number of teen problems, from struggles with authority, to making the school’s dance team. So I have to admit, I didn’t go to see the band Black Moustache at Don Hill’s last Friday because I’m a big fan of the music. Naturally, I went for the mustaches.

Black Moustache is the brainchild of Spencer Product, Kenan Gunduz and Mike Skinner, who started the project earlier this year “to see what would happen if they meshed rock ‘n roll, punk, and electronic music.” Black Moustache is a part of the next generation of electroclash, or rather, “outsider electronic music.”

Formerly one of the resident DJs at electroclash nights at Club Luxx, Black Moustache frontman Spencer Product used to perform under the stage name Prance, his over-the-top Prince-like alter ego. Black Moustache, with their emphasis on raw punk rock underlined by solid dance beats, are definitely trying to position themselves as a “post” electroclash act. However, the only thing that distinguishes the band from former “electroclash” acts is that they’ve foregone the categorization. But that’s a very punk rock move, and the result: more Clash, less electro.

After all the hype about how sleazy and punk rock Black Moustache was going to be, their set started off with a rather tame, off-key a’capella song sung by three girls in cheerleading outfits who called themselves The Troublemakers. Sporting matching black and white striped skirts, cropped sweaters, and long layers in their hair, they sung about Jesus and then pep rallied for Black Moustache with a little bit of ass-shaking, hand-clapping and cheering, punctuated with the razzle-dazzle of glittery pom-poms.

That segued into “X-On, X-Off,” an exuberant and wacky anthem for the computer-age punk that served as the introduction to the rest of the band: Mepris on guitar, John McLean on bass, and Mike Skinner on drums.

“Hot Monkey Hot Ass” was another crowd pleaser, a sardonic take on the aimless hipster slacker that got many mouthing lyrics like “Pink scarf, pointy shoes, short mohawk, old news, black eyeliner, black eyeliner, black eyeliner,” though only a few danced, in true slacker hipster fashion. What was missing from this “raw punk rock” show was, well, a bit of raw energy in the audience. Pretty looking boys and girls bopped around rather politely, and a few in the front even pulled out their cell phones, directing their friends to the show. (Others pulled camera phones out to snap pictures, which is more understandable, but still just as disconcerting a sight).

I felt so bad for the band who were giving it their all onstage, that I almost wanted to start a barfight, or at least get everyone “pogo”ing. I can understand the youthful urge to play “music that rocks,” as a Jack Black character would say, but when the raw energy onstage fails to incite a parallel energy in the audience, you have to wonder, is there a point to punk rock anymore? Have all the battles been won and are the struggles of youth behind them? The kids would rather listen to it in their bedrooms or on their iPods and rock out in their minds. Their loss, because Black Moustache put on a really great show, and that’s one leftover trademark of electroclash that I hope will stick around.