So I didn’t know exactly what to expect from the live incarnation of Clap Your Blog Say Hype–I didn’t know what they looked like, or what their stage presence would be–but I do know what I wanted. Given Alex Ounsworth’s caterwauling and the young-in-the-scene nature of the lyrics, I wanted the freakiest, skinniest little diva-queen indie rock had to offer. Donna Summer (the real one), minus the melanin, plus Prince, and an oversized suit. Genitalia optional.

Alas at my discovery that Ounsworth is just another twiggy, balding, and basically-shy indie nerd with little in the way of stage presence. He doesn’t even have the good sense to look all constipated when he reaches for those high notes. There’s no banter. The most diva-licious thing he does is waving at us crowd-folk with the back of his hand after the set–someone should tell him that comes off a little derisive. In fact, really only one person in the band looks happy to be there, and he’s the keyboard player, stuck all the way in the back, jumping around in his spot and singing along.

The songs sound fine, I suppose, and the guys are as tight as you’d expect, but there’s no attempt to stretch out or expand upon the songs we already know, and, for some reason, Ounsworth completely redacts the awesome pitched wail at the end of “The Skin Of My Yellow Country Teeth,” which is my favortite part. There are a clutch of songs unfamiliar to me–either very new or very old, no one’s saying–that mostly resemble, say, any indie-jangle-pop you can think of, except for one riotous disco number with a chorus that goes, “Satan, Satan, Satan, Satan, Satan SAYS DANCE!” which, as we all know, is one of few pure truths in our world.

So apparently the best way to get over the disappointment of seeing live a band that really only exists purely on the Internet is to catch some sexy polka-punk. And so on come Devotchka, a quartet from Denver (the lead singer speaks in some untraceable accent that may or may not be fake, or may or may not be Spanish), who I knew next to nothing about before this show. They cover all the bases of good old camp-kitsch, which normally goes sailing right over my head, but the tunes here are good enough to allow. And make no mistake, these people have chops to spare–everyone here plays at least two instruments, and exceedingly well. They run the gamut from straight violin-and-tuba led polka stylings, to something like a balalaika, to something like a disco-fried combination of those, plus. The lady with the tuba rolls out the funky disco bass on the unwieldy thing, just after a song where she gently humps her upright bass (just a little; just enough). The drummer, on more than one occassion, dumped his sticks and picked up a trumpet (you couldn’t hear him of course; either the sound-guy at the Seaport sucks, or he just wasn’t prepared for that). The guy on violin, after tearing through a speed-freak coda, picks up an accordion and pulls the same trick on that. The lead singer, at one point, plays both an oud and a theremin simulataneously. But even all those tricks can’t obscure the barnstorming, worldish tunes they pull off with this set-up, a glorious noise of conflated European-ness, complete with slow over-the-head handclaps and much waving of a wine-bottle. At one point, it encourages your hack here to attempt to start a hora with a few of his friends–to no avail, those jaded bastards. Highly recommended.