The more you try and work out why Deez's onstage calisthenics are so cartoonishly appealing, the more confused you will become. Catch them at the Metro.
Darwin Deez are cliquey, culty, cooler-than-thou dorks of the curly-haired variety. They play folk-tinged rock wearing trademark headbands and naff overshirts. Their songs are lo-fi and low-rent wonders with lyrics that are vaguely literary. Think Ben Lee vs The Flaming Lips, or Vampire Weekend Vs. Two Door Cinema Club, and you've got a synopsis of their sound.
Darwin Deez call what they do "a little bit Thriller, a little bit Dismemberment Plan”, and experiment indiscriminately with ironic Michael Jackson moves and petulant nu-hippy love. They have the threads, but not the attention span of Weezer, Nirvana and Adam Green. The more you try and work out why Deez's onstage calisthenics are so cartoonishly appealing, the more confused you will become. It's difficult enough determining whether Darwin Deez is the guy with the crazy perm who sings their songs and dances, or whether the name pertains to the entire band.
The four of them present shows that are shambling extravaganzas of unbridled energy, unfettered shame and infectious enthusiasm. They are known to break into spontaneous bouts of synchronised yet completely deranged dancing on stage, and evoke everything from island beach parties to French soccer stars. Supported by Owl Eyes, Darwin Deez will help you burn a hole in your dancing boots with their songs about twinkly stars and wrinkly scars at The Metro.
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