Dancers, don't trip over the roots. At Quintron gigs, they snake across a floor that's suddenly made of dirt, thick tendons of Cypress cultivated in the flickering light of his fantabulous, pulsing and patented drum buddy. His organ brings the heat of a thousand Louisiana lagoons but, really, it's the beat magnetics that make Mr. Q's parties go totally 19th century. And when Miss Pussycat hands you a mason jar full of sloshing orgiastic shimmy bred from florescent algae, try to remember that her puppets aren't real. Well, maybe they arent. With Psychedelic Horseshit and Drink Up Buttercup.
Wed., April 22, 8 p.m., 2009