Consider the band Living Things a Grimm's fairy tale for jaded kids. Once upon a time, in the land of St. Louis, three brothers named Eve, Lillian and Bosh were born. Their ma, a political discontent, and pa, a church-circuit carny, raised the boys on the classics—from the philosopher kings to Dylan—and in turn, the Brothers Berlin became alienated from most everyone around them.
Eventually, Eve, Lillian and Bosh grew interested in (or were forced into—it's never clear) music, which afforded a space to breathe in their claustrophobic family. The boys began performing in parking lots and on the Christian circuit, all the while developing their collaboration into something that, for all its guitar posturing and glam-funk sounds, contained weary and near-biblical apocalyptic ramblings and political warnings.
By the time a fourth spiritual brother named Cory joined up, they'd found a name: Living Things. The boys, now men—and recognized by men and women with golden pens—grew their hair wild and started to resemble Inuit wolves who had upturned a trunk of discarded Bowie costumes. When unleashed in front of adoring crowds, their music resembled very closely that of a Southern marching band that had nosed its way into several baggies of special forest fungi.
Then one day, brother Lillian met a beautiful Gothic woman who was all angles and long black hair. Floria Sigismondi made art that looked like she did. She left her snowy, quiet country, and together they moved to a hazy concrete paradise where purple flowers wheedled their way up between sidewalk cracks. Lillian and Floria married, made a baby and combined their respective arts into gloriously fucked-up music videos.
At the same time, a wizened magic elf from the east named Albini produced the Living Things' records, and the brothers spent their days and nights throwing their special rock & roll fairy dust on crowds from LA to England, including one magical place called, of course, the Galaxy. And they lived happily ever after.
Living Things with Diamond Nights and the Adored at Galaxy Concert Theater, 3503 S. Harbor Blvd., Santa Ana, (714) 957-0600; www.galaxytheatre.com. Sun., 8 p.m. $10.
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