Music

At least Kennedy fulfilled two quotas at once; Andy Dick's presence was a mystery. He alternated between sincere confessions about his much publicized substance-abuse problems and novelty songs. Dick sang like an even flatter Adam Sandler, prompting a woman in the audience to audibly hiss, "I don't know why I'm so full of hatred for that little man right now."

After an interlude by special guest Tom Tomorrow, Jello Biafra wrapped it all up with his usual bilious mastery. After years in the trenches, Biafra has perfected a down-home mixture of common sense, anger, and humor, and delivered it with preacherlike accuracy, nasally elongating a syllable ("the buuuuuuullll—") before smacking another down like a pesky fly ("—SHIT"). But while Spitfire at least made a refreshing stand against disengaged irony, its fractured soliloquies were probably more therapeutic for the speakers than thought-provoking for the audience—many of whom, in the Q&A that followed, opted for rambling monologues of their own.

—Elisabeth Vincentelli

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