IN THE YEARS SINCE the precipitous brainstorm that brought them into existence, the Pink Snowflakes have evolved into a union of creative effects wizards led by conductor/songwriter Andrew Rossi (AKA Claude Dragonfly). Surviving the fickle torments of keeping a visionary experiment lashed together personnel-wise (drummer problems, mostly), the Pink Snowflakes now stand ready to unleash their sugary horror show on those who would receive their communion of "strange."
In the widely defined neighborhood of psychedelic music, the Pink Snowflakes live on the pop side of the tracks, across the street from Brian Wilson and next door to the Flaming Lips. In fact, Claude Dragonfly's reedy vocals along with multiple effects-sodden slide guitars make their resemblance to the Transmissions-era Flaming Lips scary at times, until you realize what a good pop-psyche song they're capable of churning out, and that there can never be too many well-crafted nuggets in that vein.
They also depart from familiar ground and give dirge its due, visiting the homes of John Cale and Moe Tucker. Expansive chaos theory interludes produce faint scents of My Bloody Valentine, Butthole Surfers, and even hint at the misplaced aggression of the Cows. Ultimately, the Snowflakes play quasi-radio-friendly '90s-style non-traditional pop-psyche. (Music that taxes the shit out of my hyphenated word quota.)
While live performances have been few and far between compared to some other local bar-band workhorses, tales of squalling feedback, extended noise adventuring (amid bubble machines and an eye-liquefying projection show) hint well at the good (and weird) times awaiting showgoers.
See the Pink Snow Flakes March 30 at the Fez Ballroom.