SUPER GEEK LEAGUE The only band in town featuring Ben Exworthy. Curt Doughty
"Who likes human flesh?!" bellows Super Geek League frontman Floyd McFeely from the stage at Neumo's on a recent night. Looking like a devilish troll doll with his orange hair standing a foot into the air, and sporting a suit covered in flames, McFeely introduces his friend "Fat Cannibal" to the adequate (and plastered) crowd huddled around the stage. As onlookers shriek and applaud with a mixture of horror and delight, a gaggle of clowns pluck victims from the audience and drag them onstage to face being "eaten alive."

It's like witnessing a PG-13 version of a GWAR show.

Ten minutes into the SGL's set--wait, no, ten seconds into the set--it becomes exceedingly apparent that this is a "band" I would never have volunteered to experience live, let alone write a review of, unless someone shelled out some serious cash. I'd heard rumors of SGL's stripping nuns, dead fish, trampoline, and saran wrap, and with those terrifying possibilities growing increasingly frightening in my imagination, this was definitely one rock show I'd most happily have opted to stay far, far away from given the choice.

But money talks, and on January 13, the coldest night in the history of the world, I find shelter in a warm, dark corner of Neumo's balcony, overlooking the most fucked-up carnival from hell ever imagined. And it's all thanks to one Mr. Benjamin Exworthy, the wealthy lad who bought half of this here paper in our for-charity Strangercrombie auction last month--an investment that included a music review written about the band of his choice. He chose the Super Geek League.

There are certain things that I've always believed should never happen at a rock show. The crowd shouldn't be corralled together into pods of five and six using saran wrap; audience members shouldn't be assaulted with a moist, dead fish; and nuns shouldn't strip down to thongs, fishnets, and pasties. But the Super Geek League did it all, and much to the crowd's delight, they didn't stop there.

SGL passed out free kazoos, filling the room with a constant (and increasingly obnoxious) buzzing; they entertained with a fire dancer (who was really quite amazing and hypnotizing to watch); and they fed the crowd cake (a man made of cake, actually, straight from that weird Tom Petty video). After an hour and a half, it was all over and everyone in the room was covered in silly string, toilet paper, and wide-eyed smiles.

"The purpose of the Super Geek League, basically, is to have a really good time," explains McFeely after the show. "It's fun helping people get in touch with their inner idiot!"

The League, 30-40 members strong, is populated by McFeely's friends and friends of friends. Some have performance experience, but most don't. Expertise isn't the point.

"I have a lot of people who are involved in this that don't do performance, but this gives them the opportunity to act like a fool for a night," says McFeely. "It's amazing what people will do when you give them a venue to go all out. People are hungry for this shit, I know they are. They're so tired of being mundane and serious all the time."

The Neumo's show was certainly anything but mundane and serious. It was messy, chaotic, and a little awkward (okay, very awkward), but definitely far from ordinary. And that's a trait the Super Geek League will probably only improve upon as they continue to refine their performances. They've only played four shows thus far--this is really only the beginning.

As McFeely points out, "It's like herding retarded cats" to work out all the Leaguers' schedules, so SGL's performance calendar will probably be limited to one event every other month or so. But McFeely is certainly aware that with each show, the next spectacle must top the last, so those down months will be filled with practice and planning.

"I got this great idea for the next one," he says. "I wanna put midgets in sperm suits and have them launch off a trampoline on a big battleship. It's for a new song I wrote, 'Kamikaze Seamen.'"

megan@thestranger.com