Sylvana Joyce is an absolute force of nature. She needs to be seen to be believed… and even then you will not be sure if your eyes are fooling you. Sylvana so effortlessly incorporates the most insanely disparate genres of music in to her act… Hell… in to EACH song… that the passive observer will not even know what just happened. The active observer will just be too awe struck to realize that their mouth has been hanging open the whole time with strands of drool unconsciously hanging from their bottom lip.
Her music is an orgy… that’s right… AN ORGY… a sexed-up cacophony….of Gypsy, Klezmer, Metal, Punk, Classical, Spaceship soundtrack, bizarre, twisted, anthemic, gamma-radiation-infused quadrophonic inebriation.
Her band is so tight and so effortlessly familiar with every last idiosyncratic move that she makes that its as if they are all one singular being… and they just might be.
Sylvana commands the keyboard like Archduke Franz Ferdinand commanded his empire’s armies (before that fateful day in 1914). She is a general. She is an emperor. She has been sent from some other dimension to show us the way.
And as long as we are on the topic of sex appeal… Oh my Lord… this girl is a MUTHA F’N SEX BOMB…and she knows it. She prances across that stage like a belly dancer performing for a Sultan on his birthday. She will unfortunately remind every other girl in attendance of all they are not… and… well… that’s up to them and their therapist at that point… cause it’s not Sylvana’s fault.
If you are up for some transcendental Hapsburg meets Andy Warhol meets A Space Odyssey at an acid trip… than get yourself quick fast to the next Sylvana Joyce show. Tell her Jimmy sent ya !
