Cealed Kasket, Modern Day Savage, Awesome Car Funmaker, Central Standard, Politicians
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“Usually we have a booth that’s five feet taller than all of the other ones,” says lead singer Mortal Death, aka Josh Shenk, who’s wearing a long black wig, crude corpse makeup, a denim vest over a fishnet shirt, platform combat boots, fingerless gloves, and sunglasses. “They have panini,” exclaims drummer Scott Jackson, who’s in a pageboy wig and an overcoat-robe thing that’s part priest and part 19th-century Russian soldier. “I love panini.”
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Everyone in the band speaks in a dubious British accent. The Brown Knight Jormungand–not a member of Cealed Kasket proper but part of their elaborate stage show–has an especially shaky one, which may explain why he doesn’t say much. And the accents aren’t the only thing to be skeptical of. Maurice Pearlman, aka Mike Davidov, who plays what he calls the “large guitar” (that is, the bass), says he’s about to release a perfume called Rendezvous, FDA approval be damned, and hints that it contains psychoactive ingredients. Guitarist Sir Sarsicus, aka Rollin Weary, claims to be a 500-year-old wizard, but his long gray beard looks like something you might find hanging out of an old couch cushion. Jackson (also an alias–his real name’s Nic Nepomiach) tells me he’s a professional race-car driver on the side. He and the Brown Knight pound their pints of Guinness while the waitress is still delivering drinks to the rest of the table and order more before she leaves. They’re making her visibly uncomfortable and clearly enjoying it. Nobody breaks character, or even tells me his real name, till they all change out of their costumes to go see Nepomiach’s Ween cover band, the Pod, at the Tonic Room.
Cealed Kasket’s fans–the most devoted call themselves “Kasketeers”–aren’t hard-core for the metal either. I’m guessing most are in it for the spectacle. The band’s concerts are part musical theater and part performance art, with audience-participation rituals that combine the pageantry of a Medieval Times floor show with the irresponsible enthusiasm of backyard wrestling. At the door you get a card-stock Burger King crown, repainted brown, gold, or red to let you know which of the three knights slugging it out during the songs you’re supposed to root for. “It’s a collection of terrible people fighting and getting drunk,” says Mortal Death. “We just take their money at the end of the night.”
Next-level post-posthardcore outfit Make Believe–or, as I like to call them, the Best Punk Band in the World–have traveled a pretty bumpy road these past four years. Drummer Nate Kinsella had some trouble with the law after removing his sweaty underpants and wringing them out on the all-ages audience at a Christian punk venue in Oklahoma, forcing the band to juggle tour dates and court dates. And of course they released a pair of stunningly brilliant albums a couple decades before the listening public was ready to give them the rapturous reception they deserved.
