Their brains work faster than their fingers, and they tend to resemble each other thematically, believing in a circle of extremes and cultural awareness. Nautical Almanac perform out of huge suitcases crammed full of whipwormlike cords, little kids' sound toys, found electronics, and discarded computers they've wantonly destroyed and rewired into strange, unprecedented instruments. Masquerading mathematic equations as fanfare-esque beats, Max Cloud is the most comically lyrical of this bunch. Instead of controlling their own noises, they rely on directives from their equipment, putting themselves in psychic mind warps and trying desperately to escape their own mechanical creations.
Parents show up too, as do fat joggers looking for any excuse to take a break.
Not to mention random homeless people sneaking in through back doors. Maybe their brains crackle over Brion Gysin, linguistics, Fred Lane, toothless dentists, and more seemingly random but intellectually stimulating subjects, but their hearts tick to Journey, Freddie Mercury, and Coven. So the heterogeneous audience is easily explained by the syzygy of rock's and electronica's roots. Oh, like when Nautical Almanac forced a lightbulb to drink water, then tortured the poor thing when it wouldn't perform. Or how, at a parking-lot performance, Max Cloud completely wrapped his van in blinking Christmas lights, and 40 people rocked the vehicle to the music blaring out of a loudspeaker rigged up on the vehicle's roof.