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STORY By HARRIET KAPLAN
PHOTOS By PAUL ZOLLO
 he Fuxedos aren't your typical rock and roll band.
In fact, there is nothing conventional about them.
Many local, unsigned bands sing, play and perform well enough to make an impression when one walks out of a club having never heard them before. Usually that's where it ends. But with The Fuxedos, it goes beyond that. Their entire show leaves an indelible mark that can't be shaken or forgotten in the mind of the club-goer. Their very unusual, ambitious visual stage show is always daring and adventurous. Taking risks and chances is always a dangerous prospect in terms of how it will go over and be received and whether it can it be accomplished. That said, The Fuxedos succeed on all these counts.
This five-piece unit's aim to provoke, shock and make you think by any means necessary. A concertgoer walks out of their show remembering this group and will have an opinion about what they just experienced. The key word is experience.
The Fuxedos are: vocalist Danny Sharago; wicked Wes Styles on guitar and a bit of bass; righteous Ryan Brown on drums; the almightly Alex Budman on sax and a bit of bass and the stunning Stephen Charouhas on bass and keyboards rounding out this dynamic ensemble.
This show is more like performance art; a happening, even a freakout, whereas at a traditional concert one song in the set dovetails into another, and represents some thematic continuity and sense of order. Unlike that pattern, chaos is the order of the night and surprise is lurking around every corner at a Fuxedos show. All of this mayhem is provided courtesy of the maniacal frontman and singer Danny Shorago who has the ability to transform into different personas through the use of several costume changes. As well as shifting the tone in his voice when he actually sings.
Which by the way, he does very well and displays much range. Like on the already creepy, "I Put a Spell on You," by Screaming Jay Hawkins, he further immortalizes the eerie song and thrusts it into another category of weirdness. Otherwise, he is screaming, shrieking, grunting and ranting and raving or making some other utterances into the microphone.
The raved-up, punked out version of "I Wanna Hold Your Hand" will forever erase the wistful innocent yearning of the Beatles classic from your memory bank.
It just goes to show cover songs don't have be recreated note by note out of respect or reverence for the original band or artist, but can be reshaped and totally deconstructed for the fun or sheer hell of it.
Augmented by a bizarre assortment of props, masks and articles of very strange clothing choices laying on the floor in heap by the drum kit, the metamorphosis became more complete every few minutes.
Opening the set at the Echo, with the vitriol diatribe against the happiest place on earth, "Fuck Disneyland," the controversial pace was set. Danny wore Mickey Mouse ears and white gloved hands to get more in character.
Other highlights of this eight-song set were "The Cowboy" and the enthusiastic sing-along participation of the very funny and nonsensical "Robot Vampire Wombats."
The crowd was transfixed, most smiled or laughed, but watched with intensity, often looking a tad puzzled as Danny moved about the stage, off the stage or out the front door of the club in perpetual motion. Body slamming a garbage can and knocking it over, he wasn't afraid or concerned about rolling around in the trash, either. It's entertainment after all. Often the Mr.Clean/Jim Carrey/Henry Rollins lookalike was running, jumping, stomping and gyrating throughout the show. He'd drape the American flag around his shoulders, wipe his head with it and his other sundry parts also got a good whack with the red, white and blue.
His rubber-like expressions reminded one of comic book character come to life. One minute, he's holding two toy guns aimed at a inflatable globe in his hand while wearing a huge skull mask, mocking the insanity of violence in the world and war. Then he rips the plastic globe in half to reveal a sole doll head and throws it into the crowd. He has a doll's arm sewn on his tattered jacket dangling on the back. Then the next moment, he's in a blue polka dot duster with his combat boots on and rainbow tube socks poking out underneath with pink party hat perched on top of his shiny bald face. Shorago became a crazed sort of comatose bad child kicking his legs straight up one at time in a rhythm he seems to only hear or understand. Then he bashed a tiny toy electric guitar on the edge of the stage ala Pete Townshend or Jimi Hendrix without the fire. Although there was no actual fire set onstage, there was enough kinetic energy and sparks to keep things exciting throughout the set.
The very tight backing ensemble of The Fuxedos, or the men with fake blood on their white shirts, more than managed to support the unpredictable singer in his mission to keep the audience glued to this outrageous stage show. Their high-level of musicianship, muscular precision timing on their respective instruments churning out superior licks, thunderous bass and rhythm parts were punctuated by melodious chords on the keyboards and further enhanced by the jaunty notes of a saxophone.
While Shorago is the main focal point in the band, in essence a whirling dervish of constant, non-stop motion, the band is more grounded in its stillness, anchoring the set somewhat to planet earth. Not too earthbound though; it's a bit of an understatement, but The Fuxedos are out of this world and are unlike any other L.A. band. Ever. Go see them. You'll be happy you did.
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