First of all, the lead vocalist looked possessed, with bugged-out eyes and jerky spastic movements, and he sprinkled his performance with odd little hand gestures-at one point I won-dered if he might be cleaning out his ears. I say "vocalist" because "singer" would be misleading. Though occasionally melodic-and composed, I'm pretty sure, of words-the sound coming out of his mouth is something beyond singing: not growling and screaming, but insistent, high-pitched, not-quite-squeals.
The chaotic vocals were balanced by unconventional hooks, most often from the guitar and brass. Saxophonist Christian Doble utterly reclaims this instrument for the hardcore side of cool. His fast, loud, in-your-face, rhythmic playing bears absolutely no relation to smooth jazz (and will never be heard over a candlelit dinner).
The rest of the band's sound equally defies categorization. These musicians press violently against the boundaries of any genre one might use to describe them, although if Deerhoof and Wolf Parade had an angry baby, it might sound like Child Bite. They have a postpunk affinity for marginal electronic instruments like theremins and joysticks, but the innovation and so-phistication of their most recent album, Fantastic Gusts of Blood, veer more toward the pretensions of art-rock.