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Wet Spots Leave A Mark at Revival

When you're out for a night on the town on Valentine's Day the last thing you want to do is take your bicycle. Leaving aside the DUI issue, there's usually a whole lot of slushy snow and it's no fun persuading taxis to put your bike in their trunk while that special someone you met at the bar waits in the cold.

By the time I'd pulled up to Revival for The Wet Spots show on Wednesday, I was beginning to feel rather miserable and one of my pedals chose that very moment to shatter into a million pieces, perfectly capping what had been an up-hill-both-ways kind of struggle to get here. Still, I'd gone this far and I was determined to make a go of it and enjoy myself.

Entering the club, I found it packed with an eclectic gathering of folks, many of them, it seemed, up for a bit of campy fun on a cold winter night. Having never been to a Wet Spots show before, I didn't know what to expect but after meeting John Woods, clad only a shiny green jacket, boxers and sock suspenders, I was chomping at the bit for some weirdness.

The opening act, Fred Spek's Camp Combo, featured all of the elements essential for a novelty act: mad-paced, frenetic music that careened wildly between lounge and jazz, the all-important banjo and a singer sporting a plaid dinner jacket. Stylish clothing aside, Fred would be wise to stick to his sax because he sounds just like Bert from Sesame Street whenever he opens his mouth. This, combined with his uncanny resemblance to Al Bundy, managed to amuse me for a couple of songs but I was still glad when their set was over and The Wet Spots took stage.

As usual they began with their little invocation that involved each audience member placing their hand on the crotch of the person next to them and promising to "make the wet spots huge" that night. The empty seat to my left didn't seem to appreciate the attention but it was difficult not respond to Cass King's incredibly charismatic attempts to rouse the audience out of their winter torpor. Dressed up as a 1920's flapper with a winning smile, King was not deterred by their initial lack of enthusiasm and continually worked the crowd until they pretty much did whatever she wanted.

Both King and Woods knew how to share the spotlight, delivering their lines with a wink and a nod (not to mention some impressive comedic timing). Even if some of their routine came across as polished as a well-used dildo, it was difficult to find fault with it; they're just so damned good at what they do.

Moving through their set (which was comprised of songs from both of their albums) at a break-neck pace, they kept us laughing all the way through. By the time it was over, I was far too tired to check out the Smiling Buddha's slow dance and I didn't much care. Like John Waters orchestrating a midnight viewing of the Rocky Horror, they pulled off a fun, sleazy show. If you're like me and don't do many live acts, you owe it to yourself to spend an evening with The Wet Spots.

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Photos by Greg King.


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