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I imagine when he’s not busy trying to outsmart Batman, the Joker likes grooving around his gloomy abandoned factory while listening to Man Man. The Philadelphia vaudeville/circus/Viking jazz act has been commonly thought of as the epitome of glorified dementia, their live shows a tireless, shouting sing-a-long with war paint over their faces. Their much-anticipated third full-length album, “Rabbit Habits,” is still a typical cheerful descent into madness—sinister repetitive chants, dissonant xylophones, etc.—but it’s also Man Man’s most poppy album to date. A few songs could even be described as conventional (for Man Man standards), if there wasn’t, like, a kazoo, in the middle of them. The short, piano-driven diddy “Doo Right” may be Man Man at its most accessible, even with lyrics like, “My collective memories are in shambles, and so are my scruples,” which, coincidentally, is what most people say after seeing their live show. (Andy Seifert)
Wednesday, April 16 at Logan Square Auditorium
