On a cold November Saturday night, hordes of mulleted and mustachioed Brooklynites line up outside Warsaw, the Greenpoint punk club, waiting to see indie rock band Geese. On a wall opposite the box office, a sign warns: “No Moshing.” That rule is broken not 20 minutes into the set, when the band unleashes the guitar riffs of “2122,” a shape-shifting blues-rock romp flecked with nonsense lyrics, banjo plucking and Elvis impersonations.
“Voodoo Balarama Baba Yaga, I’m taking my love to the outside!” Cameron Winter yowls a cappella, with a delivery that would do Jon Spencer proud, before a distorted guitar spirals over pattering drums. It all somehow … works?
That’s because Geese grasps a fundamental aspect of rock ’n’ roll that seems lately to have been neglected: It’s supposed to…
