Coin toss in a binary universe. Heads, they're fab. Tails, they ain't. Heads it is!
For refusing to play venues that discriminate against smokers, vegans, or socialists, Cake deserve our unconditional support. The quirkiest and perkiest combo since Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark, they are truly "on the scene" as few, few bands in the long, hallowed annals of etc.—before, after, or during.
My Wild Irish Wong, their current compaqt disc, is to these ears the most satisfying longplayer, start to fin, since Meet the Beach Boys, no, 'scuse me, Trini Lopez Live at PJ's . . . wow! Standout cuts (if you haven't heard 'em, you MUST): "Col. Tom Parker Speaks Out on Smut" (no phony-baloney "punk-a-billy"—this is the genu-wine article); "Abraham, Martin, and Krushchev" (Weezer, eat yer hearts out!); "(You Put) Cooties on the Universal Truth" (simply indescribable).
Live, I'm told (no, I'm not making this up, somebody TOLD me), they are masters—and monsters!--of space, time, sound, and fury (signifying ev'rything)—the greatest thing since sliced tuna. I would stake my LIFE on their sonic pre-eminence in rock club settings. If they fail to please, I die!