According to one of their websites, “We imagine Aquapuke as not only a sonic endeavor, but also as an expression of the musical possibilities of self-inflicted bodily violence [...] the sweat pouring into our eyes, the pain building in our backs as we approach hyperventilation, the extreme torment in Clint’s throat as he tries to get out one more primal scream, the intense suffering in my lips and diaphragm as I reach for the highest note possible after playing for 29 minutes, and finally the offering of our bodies as surrogates for Kim’s once we have died our musical deaths. ”
In fact, the local tuba/vox noise duo sounded mostly like the birthing cries of the Titanic as it's forced through the sphincter at the beginning of time. Near the end of the set, a man in the back of the crowd of maybe fifteen people said loudly, “Oh guys, you are great. Keep playing. Good job.”
Aquapuke, in red skirts and high heels, continued to groan like a shipwreck, alternately ecstatic and infernal.
“Yes, oh my god. You are amazing. Do not stop. You are genius. Yes.”
At the end of the show, the impassioned heckler approached the band to prolong his praise. It wasn’t really apparent to anybody how candid the man was being, which only accentuated the surreal vibe in the gallery.