At the Troubadour Thursday night, May 2, 2013, Capsula demonstrated just how powerfully seductive glamour and sedition can make an otherwise ordinary mid-week night. Your Girl In Music knew she was in for a mean punchy aural treat the moment her eyes fell upon a loud pink piñata adorning the Ignacio Villarejo-manned drum kit, and Capsula did not disappoint. Martin Guevara and Coni Duchess invoked the full pantheon of rock and rolls Angels and Demons as they channeled the crowd’s frenetic energy. In his dark skinny denim and black and red spaghetti western shirt, Martin manipulated his guitar over the crowd, while Coni writhed to the music in her Black dress and Black starry tights. The energy visibly crackled and surged as they tore through their set, stopping to occasionally address the ever-increasing group of young bodies in the dark, intimate, legendary WeHo venue.
Complementing their 6-piece headliner, Os Mutantes, who excel in the surreal hypnotic entrancement of spiritual sitar solos and anthemic storytelling, this is a group who clearly subsists on punk-rock poetry and noise revolution. They fed their frothing audience an exalted filthy rebellion for our nightly bread and we glistened in the dirty divine glow of satiation. It’s a difficult task to get LA concert-goers to do anything that might tarnish the hard cool air they seek to exude. But not tonight. On this night, the crowd was so enthralled with each sonic manipulation that by what was supposed to be the end of Capsula’s set, the band had built such a fever pitch in the crowd that the demand for not one, not two, but THREE encore songs was acquiesced. This would be legit encores, by the way, not the required-in-the-rider encores the heavy-weights pantomime at Staples Center.
For one night, just after May-Day, that bizarre and oh so apropos mascot oversaw an LA that forgot itself entirely, as well as the decade it tries to pose in. The glitter and the grime came alive, took form and awoke the exotic strut in us all. My nightly slumbers still star that campy pink monster piñata the band casually hung off their bass drum, although whatever goodies stay treasured away inside cannot compete with the aural confection that surrounds it on stage.
What’s in the Mirror