By Melissa Fossum
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By New Times
By Amanda Savage
By Jason P. Woodbury
By Troy Farah
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Tired of all the ho-hum musicians our local scene has to offer? You know, boring bands who'd rather blast their tracks while standing on stage? Then peep the perversely non-plastic performing plaything known as Treasure Mammal. This one-man musical dynamo is gung ho like G.I. Joe, giving new meaning to "action figure" as he bounces around local venues during his shows. He comes with all the awesome accessories and fabulous features shown.
These shaded specs conceal the alter ego of Abe Gil, a mild-mannered 26-year-old middle-school teacher who, over the past two years, has been "changing people's views of what music is with a more performance-based act," in the vein of I Hate You When You're Pregnant.
This battered baggage holds a BOSS SP-303 Dr. Sample, which stores Gil's various songs. Mixed from surreal samples of Jane Fonda workout tapes, self-help cassettes, electric guitars, and manipulated sounds of children's toys, the dissonant ditties are overlaid with scream-sung lyrics about doing your parents, having spring break misadventures, and other seamy subjects.
Used to launch Gil through a series of outlandish antics -- hanging from the rafters, organizing conga lines, crawling on the floor, and jumping on the backs of audience members -- which helps "get the crowd into the act."
Depicting a winged unicorn lit by bolts of purple lightning, this tog embodies Gil's freaky fashion sense and was created by local punk DJ TeeRoy.
A Public Address Musical Powerhorn from RadioShack, held in Gil's kung-fu grip, is used during certain songs to create "really gritty and distorted" vocals.
Treasure Mammal's new nine-track CD, Expect the Max, is filled with tributes to the late Luther Vandross, dorky dance-pop songs, and an early '90s-style rap number called "Let's Get Naked."