![]() The musicians, including a trombonist and a Mellotron player, kicked into the overture, which featured clangorous music based on “Double Shot (Of My Baby’s Love),” by the Swingin’ Medallions-the organ riff hints at the eerie garage rock of “96 Tears”-and Sanborn’s video art was projected onscreen. (“The eyeball is hell,” an associate said.) Here the lead singer wore a bald-capped rubber mask with arched eyebrows and a bulbous nose, which, compared with the eyeball, the associate said, “feels like air-conditioning.” The mask was accessorized with sunglasses, a dinner jacket, a Residents eyeball T-shirt, and Under Armour sweatpants. ![]() The Residents’ eyeball masks, which encompass the head, aren’t conducive to singing. “These are the heavenly angels he wants to live with, but it ain’t gonna happen.” The show would make its MOMA début that weekend tickets sold out quickly. “I feel that the twins aren’t real,” Sanborn said. X, an entrepreneur who becomes entwined with a pair of gender-fluid conjoined twins, who may or may not exist. They were doing a “stumble-through” rehearsal of “God in Three Persons,” their 1988 rock-opera album, newly adapted for the stage by the video artist John Sanborn, who watched from the back of the house. This was the lead singer of the venerable and anonymous San Francisco art-rock collective the Residents, known for their iconic eyeball helmets, top hats, and tuxedos. On a recent Thursday, as a band warmed up in a dark subterranean theatre at the Museum of Modern Art, a figure in a rubber mask stood in a doorway offstage, bathed in the red glow of an EXIT light. The Residents Illustration by João Fazenda
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