Amanda Palmer forges her own path in Los Angeles

August 4, 2008, at the Troubadour

By Melissa Bobbitt
Published: August 7th, 2008 | 11:52am

When you're so accustomed to being part of a duo, the prospect of going it alone in life can be debilitating. Your vulnerability is brandished on your sleeve, and your longing eyes reveal a sullen panic. But when you're Amanda Palmer — the emotive mistress of punk cabaret act the Dresden Dolls — you harness that terror and use it to your advantage. The audience becomes your copilot in your better half's stead. You find strength in the absence of familiarity.

On numerous occasions, Palmer informed the attendees of her first show promoting her solo album, the Ben Folds–produced Who Killed Amanda Palmer? (Roadrunner), that she missed her band mate, Brian Viglione. She'd spoken with him on the phone prior to the show and relayed, "He told everyone to rock the fuck out." As she spun yarns and answered questions from fans, she noted, "By now, Brian would be like, 'Shut up and play, bitch!'" Without Viglione's discipline, she did tend to get a little longwinded in her banter, but she more than compensated with a set rife with surprises.

Among them: her father, Jack, joining her on guitar and vocals for Leonard Cohen's "Night Comes On." They embraced tenderly after the song, Papa's face warm with pride, and daughter quivering with accomplishment in her gothic ballerina ensemble.

Vivacious cover songs littered her performance. Beloved tunes by Regina Spektor and Radiohead (on a ukulele!) were transmogrified. And an obscure, majestic ballad plucked from Palmer's stay in Scotland highlighted her musical independence. "Look, Mommy, no hands … I have to do it all by myself," she sang in her commanding contralto.

Stripped down but effervescent takes on Dresden Doll favorites such as "Coin-Operated Boy" set the audience ablaze. Fans lapped up every herky-jerky motion she made as she attacked her keyboard and giggled at the clever lyrics of her new material. (One song, a collaboration with macabre auteur Neil Gaiman, confesses, "I Google you late at night when I don't know what to do.")

Equally amusing was Vermillion Lies. Sisters Zoe and Kim Boekbinder, decked out in Mad Hatter and Alice costumes, opened a literal Pandora's box of entertainment. They dug into a ragged trunk and fetched typewriters, marionettes, plastic lobsters, and barbecue grills as musical instruments. Their Vaudevillian songs were just as zany, commenting on global warming, comparing lovers to seafood, and seeing the entire solar system as an aphrodisiac. Aussie balladeer Azaria kept things more austere, with his Cure/Smashing Pumpkins style.

Palmer's selection of supporting groups greatly reflects her own strengths: showmanship beyond comparison and unabashed vulnerability. Whether on her own or alongside Viglione, this woman is radiant.