On Saturday at 6:55 p.m., on the Osheaga Valley Stage, the Viagra Boys wasted no time, turning the venue into a massive party. Right from “Man Made of Meat,” the Infinite Anxiety Tour logo appeared behind the band before gradually giving way to a succession of high-contrast black-and-white footage, red light showers, and glitch effects punctuated by almost subliminal images. At the centre of this visual onslaught, Sebastian Murphy took the stage shirtless, his tattoos on full display, with the confidence of a provocateur as unpredictable as he is charismatic. Behind him, the six musicians drive the whole thing forward with massive bass lines, relentless drums, and a wild saxophone that constantly shifts the post-punk sound toward something much more danceable.
Viagra Boys quickly prove that behind their absurd humour lies a formidable musical machine. Each track is built on a relentless groove that transforms this raw, edgy post-punk into an irresistible invitation to dance. The crowd sings along at the top of their lungs to “Punk Rock Loser,” “Ain’t No Thief” spontaneously gets everyone clapping, while “Uno II” offers a more laid-back moment without letting the energy drop. The saxophone solo that concludes “Down in the Basement” even sparks an unlikely scene: part of the crowd begins to shout out the notes, as if the musician were issuing a call to which his own clan was responding.
Murphy punctuates the concert with a few irreverent remarks, notably shouting “Free Palestine” before “Troglodyte,” then lets the songs speak for themselves. The absurdity reaches its peak with “Sports,” whose litany of words delivered in a detached voice is taken up with contagious enthusiasm by an audience that knows exactly what’s coming and erupts at the first “SPORTS!”
The finale on “Research Chemicals” perfectly captures the band’s spirit. Murphy surfs the crowd before attempting a few push-ups with a determination inversely proportional to his athletic ability, while the saxophone goes wild over a hypnotic bassline. Viagra Boys give the impression that a group of misfits has accidentally found a way to become an excellent dance machine, and no one wants to correct the mistake.
