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	TRANS AM AND BOBBY CONN Political parties

Both Trans Am, a mostly instrumental prog-leaning trio from DC, and Bobby Conn, an over-the-top, glammed-out showman from Chicago, have new CDs out on Thrill Jockey. Both albums — Trans Am’s Liberation and Bobby Conn’s The Homeland — have been touted as having direct political agendas, namely getting rid of the Bush regime. But the politics seemed to have got lost somewhere between the studio and the stage downstairs at the Middle East a week ago Thursday, where the two joined forces for an eclectic display of cerebral yet muscular musicianship. And though it might have been nice to hear Conn, a consummate showman, take a couple of swipes at Rummy or Ashcroft, or for the fellas in Trans Am at least to urge the 200 or so people in the audience to vote, both had enough going on to keep themselves busy and the crowd content.

Conn opened with some camped-up, wah-wah-pedaling disco that showcased the dexterity of the Glass Gypsies, his five-piece backing band. But once they’d found their groove and worked the kinks out of the complicated four- and five-part harmonies that adorn so many of his jobs, the social critiques of The Homeland started to surface. The new-wavy "We Come in Peace," with its heavy-handed "God’s on our side" lyrics, and the Bowie-fied glam-metal of "The Homeland," with its mantra-like repetition of "For the homeland," were at least suggestive of Conn’s political agenda. But with shredding, white-leather-clad guitarist Sledd ripping out Poisonous riff after riff while Monica BouBou kept pace on violin and keyboardist Pearly Sweets (who wore a fringed beige suede vest) filled whatever nooks and crannies were left, it was a case of musical might overshadowing message. Not until most of the Gypsies left Sweets and Conn alone to deliver the piano power ballad "Home Sweet Home" did the deeply cynical irony embedded in The Homeland come into focus as Conn crooned, "I got carpet on my floor/And a gun by every door/And I’m free . . . free to live my life in constant fear."

Since most of Trans Am’s set, which cold-fused the arena-rock anthemics of Rush with the dystopian dance funk of Kraftwerk, had no vocals, you more or less had to use the images of helicopters and flowers projected on the screen behind the trio to suss out who they’d be voting for in the next election. And when vocals did surface, they were so robotically processed, it was hard to make out any actual words. But in the decade since Trans Am first surfaced as something of a novelty (an instrumental indie-rock band?), they’ve developed into a versatile riff-rock machine with a powerful sense of groove and a drummer, Sebastian Thompson, who marries the busy bashing of a Neal Peart with the deft syncopations of a Stewart Copeland. Thompson’s set-closing solo didn’t make any political points, but it was a solid musical statement.