Franz Ferdinand at Northsix, Brooklyn, January 20, 2004

Strap yourselves in for a quick history refresher on Franz Ferdinand. He was the heir to the Austrian throne whose assassination set off World War I and is also the topic of this month's NY Rock Confidential. During my Franz research, I came across these tidbits of information: "Shunned by the elite of Viennese society, [Ferdinand] was also called 'the loneliest man in Vienna.' He lacked the two key elements for success in this social scene – charm and elegance." Employing my esteemed bachelor's degree, I deduced that Franz was a punk.

Fittingly, Franz Ferdinand is also the namesake of a hard-charging post-punk new-wave Scottish quartet currently receiving the handjob du jour from NME. Across the pond, the press loves them (but really, who don't they love?) so on to America the band comes (harf) to test their international appeal. Franz Ferdinand play Manhattan next month, but first they had to test the waters in Brooklyn. Court was held at Northsix in Williamsburg on a brutally cold Tuesday night. The venue either didn't pay the heating bill, or was saving a few pennies on their next one because almost everyone in the place had their scarves and coats on, and not for ironic hipster couture purposes. Like, brrr.

Franz's boys took the stage to much applause. They were a genial bunch, smiling and greeting onlookers with a sprightly "Hallo!" Singers/guitarists Alex Kapranos and Nick McCarthy were sporting similar brown button downs. Ugly ones. With vertical beige stripes. But McCarthy won the fashion bastard prize. The dude had on a pair of skin-tight white pants that had little mint-green circles on them. They looked like old-man pajama bottoms, but really really snug. Interestingly, I didn't see any panty-lines which means he was either going commando or wearing a thong. And from my vantage point, I couldn't detect any exterior plumbing, but he was way too chipper to be a eunuch. Thus concludes this paragraph on Nick McCarthy's absent package.

The band melted the frostbite off everyone's noses with a lively, turgid mix of angular (THE post-punk descriptive word of choice) guitar chops, booming bottom (kudos to bassist Bob Hardy), scattered synth lovin', and orgasmically danceable drumming courtesy of Paul Thompson. Kapranos flaunted his military-like herky-jerky posturing while McCarthy took turns bouncing on the keys and striking his guitar. The sharpness of the songs shattered into fluid but effervescent choruses that one-upped the dance band of the moment, the Rapture. Songs like "Better on Holiday" and "Take Me Out" brought on thunderous propulsions and suave, deep vocals but never lost sight of their frisky and goofy sides. When Kapranos encouraged the crowd to "break the law" and dance, they obliged. It got so hot in Northsix that the once-bundled-up people started peeling off layers of clothing in fits of joy. Go indie-boy, doff that V-neck! One poor lass couldn't take it anymore and cried out, "I love you Franz Ferdinand the Band!" Franz Ferdinand, Scotland's mack daddies.

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