LOS ANGELES, CA- Marc Rebillet is a phenomenon. Now, that’s a word that I use frequently, so let’s drill down on what I really mean insofar as it applies to Mr. Rebillet. As a phenomenon, Marc is his own universe. He has created his own culture. He is the flagbearer for an IYKYK army, membership to which is simply to know. Because to be aware of his existence is to be wrapped warmly within the arms of his profane yet adorable and loving embrace.
On a personal level, the algorithms helped me stumble upon Marc during what were, for me, some of the darkest and loneliest days of the early Covid lockdowns; a time when Los Angeles was really freaking out. A time of isolation, boredom, and collective anxiety broken up by video clips of a man in tightie whities and a kimono bringing music and madness to anyone who would listen. So, on this particular night at the Belasco, I’m a critic but also an unrepentant and shameless man-crushing fan boy.
And the Belasco was beautiful on this evening. It’s overshadowed sometimes by the more ostentatious and patently weirder Mayan Theater next door (which was simultaneously hosting BC favorites Chicano Batman) but the Belasco is a classic of baroque 1920s DTLA decadence. Intricately detailed and gilded walls, and a stunning ceiling for those who find themselves looking … up.
The architecture provided an elegant backdrop for the Rebillet stage which, unsurprisingly, was filled with lots of large inflatable objects that morphed the theater into a cartoonish sort of amusement park wonderland.
The sound of soft bossa nova wafted through the room as the audience slowly arrived, more than a few wearing bathrobes in homage to Rebillet, not Lebowski, though I imagine the two would get on swimmingly were they ever to cross paths in a Coen Bros universe.
And then the party began. With no introduction that I could notice and the lights remaining dark except for strobes focused on the crowd, a young woman stepped forward from the shadows and into the booth to light the first spark. It turned out to be accomplished DJ and Rebillet paramour, Francesca. Allowing the music and the crowd to be their own focus of attention, the lady remained in the shadows while inverting the vibe from chill to disco party from the first beat. It’s not always easy to get bodies dancing in LA. Crowds at LA concerts can have the butt-moving inertia of an oil tanker. But Francesca was quick to melt any resistance and get things well and lubed up before passing the baton to Marc. Blending Chic’s Le Freak and MGMT with steadily accelerating layers of beats, she fluffed the crowd’s collective earhole like a pro jock.
And while the crowd clearly didn’t wanna blow its proverbial energetic load too early in the evening, her set was hard to resist. Got the kids a little ripe and sweaty for the main event. By the time the lights went up and she stepped off the stage, the room was more crowded and way frothier. Which seems appropriate for Marc. Because as fantastically unsanitary as it sounds, I think Marc would thrive – and most certainly has thrived, many times – in a room full of people wearing only hand me down BVDs, dancing and sweating, profusely.
It is into this now warm and toasty Belasco room that Mr. Rebillet strides onto the stage. 9 pm. On the dot. Dude’s a pro. And let’s not forget, a phenomenon. This is HIS culture, HIS people, HIS universe. And he’s about to stick his finger right up its butt, in the best way possible. He’s a Vince McMahon or, probably more apt to say, a Randy Macho Man Savage of foul mouthed but benevolent and enlightened DJ hype men. Skinny ripped in his undies, he is a mustachioed pied piper of the modern day, ready to conquer evil and annihilate the hate. Armed with a keyboard, a loop station, and a preternatural comfort with the word “fuck” that would make Tarantino blush, it’s possible that Marc is the hero we didn’t know we want but that we most very certainly need.
And so it goes. Energy and irony. A slow clap directed at and with the crowd, 1500 near-capacity souls chanting “shut … the fuck … up!” And as this four word mantra reached its crescendo, lo and behold, the Marc recorded it for the evening’s first loop. The crowd’s chant now blasted back at the crowd. Shut … The Fuck … UP! Let the games begin.
The potential genius of taking a word, any word, and feeding it into a repetitive mantra is that for a second or two or ten, you forget what the word was as it becomes just a sound or a rhythm. Words in repetition become defanged of their lexical meaning; reduced to the absolute value of the spoken syllables. Signifier is stripped of the constructs that gave birth to its signified and we’re left with pure collective sound that only exists because we’re all a part of it. It’s kind of the best and worst of the human condition. We forget about what things mean because we’re united in energy. Frozen in time, held in a loop, both literal and metaphorical. Outside the walls of the venue, this exercise produces an energy that we can’t take for granted because it’s either the substance of revolution and transformation that is born of our collective love … or the mob rule and chaos of our collective hate and fear. But rarely do we have to worry about what direction that collective energy will take when we’re in the chrysalis of a Rebillet concert. The transformation is typically all good. Sweat, smiles, and words with no meaning. A thousand-plus revelers in underwear and bathrobes screaming “Shut. The FUCK. Up!” at the top of their lungs. Our contradictions and hypocrisies become our superpower as few things make us laugh as hard at ourselves as we do at others. Led by the king marionette; simultaneously a puppeteer and a clown; a sort of mad scientist, half naked, convulsing, hair flying, glasses barely hanging onto his ears while confetti canons and smoke machines blast madness into the air. Air that was filling all of our lungs. Marc isn’t an experience you just see and hear, he’s a life force that you breathe.
As he spins seemingly out of control — everything is controlled chaos with Rebillet — Marc trips over the giant inflatable blocks on stage. A sexy Lenny Bruce and Chevy Chase, screaming every blue word under the sun. For fun. With love. Whipping around a mic cord that looks like a nautical rope. Screaming and sometimes singing. Which is awesome when he does because dude has a good voice. On a scale of 1 to Anthony Kiedis, it’s an easy 11 (love you Anthony!!!).
Flailing with amazing grace, he makes everyone look overdressed and under exercised. On the eve of America’s presidential election, I’d vote for any candidate that would pledge to appoint Marc minister of health, physical fitness, and profane but excellent vibes.
So many vibes. He’s like a G-rated Tarantino script. More fuck bombs than you can count but somehow still wholesome in a very freaky deaky and adorably sexual way. Like… if you ever let him babysit your kids, you know you’d come home to find them jumping on the couch screaming “fuck mom and dad” and yet, after a deep breath, you’d ask him if he was free to watch them again next week.
It’s dark twisted fun love. It’s almost like the more sick, twisted, and violent his lyrics get, the more love you feel in the room. Counterintuitive. But it works. His sinister laugh would make Vincent Price blush but it’s a clarion call to good times as he unleashes the next loop of what can only be called hip thrusting audible lube. And as that loop builds and bends, the energy feels like a mad dash. An Olympic sprint. But he’s a marathon man. Dude could go all night. And probably does.
If I was casting a half naked mad scientist, he’d be tops. Replace the mixing board and laptop with beakers and Bunsen burners. Maybe a lightning rod on a stormy night. No careful measurements. Just a feverish lunatic throwing ingredients together. The Muppet’s Swedish Chef. Gene Wilder’s Dr. Frankenstein. More of a Mel Brooks-meets-Russ Myers than a Bela Lugosi or a Boris Karloff. But a creator of creatures nonetheless. And we’re the monster he created. Which creates the monster he becomes. A positive feedback loop growing on its own energy. So very meta.
As if on cue, someone threw their pants on stage. Not panties for this present-day Tom Jones. They threw a full pair of long-legged Trousers, which Marc dutifully picked up and donned. At least, for a moment before he stripped them back off. To much fanfare.
“On my stage. There are no pants. Is that understood?!?!”
As the nuclear arms race of clothing throwing escalated, someone threw their bra onstage. Marc had been hyping the audience to vote the next day – it was after all, 2024 election eve – but he paused on politics to squeeze his prodigious pecs into the spandex support. The new poster child for Kramer and Frank Costanza’s manssiere. A little struggle to get it on, but it fit him pretty well until he Hulk Hogan’d the bra off his body, tossed the ripped pieces into the crowd, and with a primitive growl into the microphone, blasted us into the next orbit.
At this point, it became clear that the Stonehenge of inflatable objects on stage were as much guardrail as decoration. They were there so Marc had something he couldn’t break. Including himself. Though he came pretty damn close a couple times.
Ultimately, there may be others in this world who might have his skills, but no one matches Marc’s ability to improvise and channel his sonically sexual and kinetic energy into communal exuberance.
As the set nears is close, he’s pulled people up on stage, shmoozed with them, grooved with them, booted them back into the crowd. Any anxiety about the pending election that anyone had brought with them into the Belasco was now very long gone. Playfully hazing a guy who’d made it up on stage, Marc declared to the crowd that we were now going to serenade the man’s mom. “With peace, love, joy … and hot sex. Celebrating your mom. A break up. For him. For her. Because it wasn’t working. Fuck that shit! Choose happiness. It’s okay. Sometimes it’s not meant to be. And we gotta celebrate the PISS out of that…!”
And that’s kinda what elections are. Hookups and breakups. Large inflatable objects on stage. Collective vibes. Barring civil war, the results will be known long before this hits print. Curious to know how it turns out.
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