Recap Girl Talk at the Congress Theatre

1. The venue is an echo chamber
The Congress is hardly the ideal setting for Girl Talk’s intricate, deeply layered mash-ups. It’s a cavernous den better suited to the likes of opera singing than it is to Gregg Gillis’ seamless, scrambled samples of Nirvana smoothly commingling with Young Jeezy. So, many naysayers were rightfully concerned about how well the show would stand up.

One of the biggest appeals of Girl Talk’s music is the spectator sport of picking out recognizable samples and what they're contrasted against. The Congress’ acoustic issues rendered this game rather impossible—the samples were so drenched in reverb that you could only feel them deliver a shock to your solar plexus, and then a few seconds later, be assaulted by the higher-frequency sounds like cymbals, guitar riffs, and singing.
But no one seemed to mind. Everyone was too busy thrashing around to samples of “Say It Ain’t So,” “Whoomp! (There It Is),” and Kanye West’s technically unreleased “Love Lockdown” to even consider the weird time-delay of the sludgy sound flowing through the air. At only one point did people seem annoyed by the audio: About an hour in, the volume inexplicably dipped. It was hard to determine whether it was a legitimate problem with the theater or merely tinnitus. Regardless, when the situation was remedied, the crowd roared with applause.

2. The show was beyond sold out
Elbow and breathing room were not to be had. The show was sold out to begin with, but, miraculously, early on Saturday the Empty Bottle (which was presenting the show at the Congress) released even more tickets for sale. When he finally took the stage, Gillis summed up the show thusly: “This is the biggest individual show I’ve played in my entire life. This shit is ridiculous!”

Just before Girl Talk’s set kicked off, though, a wrangler took to the mic and warned the crowd that the show was indeed packed to capacity—and that everyone needs to take two steps back so the front row can breathe. That also didn’t stop Gillis from encouraging the crowd to come forward, and, as is typical with his shows, storm the stage.

Truly, the only word to describe the primal vibe surrounding these remixes born from Gillis’ bedroom is “ridiculous.” The shirtless man thrashing around his laptop was soon flanked by his absurdly dressed fans: Lots of girls wearing Kanye West-style sunglasses, a dude wearing an Indian headdress, and a guy in a full neon-green bodysuit all jockeyed for a position closer to Gillis. The aforementioned sound issues only encouraged the crowd to twitch and dance as one. Everyone was dancing with their hands in the air, whether they wanted to or not. There simply was no place to retreat to, and nobody wanted to anyhow.

3. It’s just a guy playing music from his laptop
Common sense suggests that a single man playing music from his laptop doesn’t exactly make for a compelling live performance—especially one that can enrapture an entire packed house. And, well, technically, this holds true with Girl Talk, except for one thing: His shows are far more about the communal drive to dance to his illogical mash-ups—the focal point is his music, not him.

Part of what drove that point home was the no-frills PowerPoint-like slides being projected behind him at all time. Most memorably was a slide of Gillis himself, overlaid with “I’M NOT A DJ” in huge block letters. Point taken. The rest of the slides were as unexpected as Girl Talk’s music: Images of stories-high cheeseburgers clashed against flaming basketballs, flaming flying Vs, bejeweled skulls, and, naturally, a glowing marijuana leaf.

That said, other elements of the show intended to liven it up were more puzzling than anything else—and they were largely thankless jobs done stoically by Gillis’ lackeys. Before summoning the crowd onstage with him, Gillis dipped into the crowd—a move that caused the Congress’ wranglers to frantically heave him back onstage. After he brought the crowd onstage, the same man stood motionless with his arms securing a perimeter around Gillis to assure the hundred or so people onstage couldn’t touch him. Less practical were the costumed individuals shooting toilet-paper guns and confetti into the audience. Outside of diarrhea, people have never foraged so desperately for toilet paper.

That two-ply actually is a good metaphor for the entire evening: On paper, it doesn’t make sense at all; in person, it’s too bizarre and exciting to pass up. Toss in a balloon drop at the end, and, really, who could ask for more?