“So, Carl, aren’t you going to paint the half-naked chicks?”

So asked my good friend Dave at the Paradise last night.

No, it wasn’t a strip club. No, it wasn’t an art show, though it certainly was art. No, it wasn’t a wild orgy plucked from the fertile ground of my imagination. If it were, I’d still be there, and not writing this.

No indeed. What it was, what I will always remember it as, is one of the absolute coolest live music shows I have ever seen.

Imagine, if you will, arriving at a concert venue (a.k.a. club), and seeing outside something out of an old European carnival. Girls in frilly dresses and face make-up, guys on stilts and wearing top-hats, people in costume standing like statues. It was surreal already, and we hadn’t even set foot inside.

I’ve been to the Paradise before. I recently saw Handsome Boy Modeling School there. I didn’t really think much of the place, to be honest. I mean, compared to the acoustics at the Orpheum, it’s just another club. Nicer than some, certainly more pleasant than the Roxy, at least to my eyes and ears, but nothing spectacular.

But heading inside this unremarkable music club, my perceptions were transformed amid a wash of sights and sounds. There were women standing perfectly still, living statues so well trained even their eyes didn’t follow you as you moved. There were goths, punks, posers, average joes (and janes), and a few characters I’m not entirely sure of (how do you describe a six-foot, six-inch man who has buckled his very thin frame head-to-toe in leather? Or the one girl who wore those fantastic blue booty shorts and spent the entire evening bent over the banister of the upper level?). And they all added to the atmosphere. It was almost as if their very presence contributed to the show, made it better, augmented its surrealism.

As a taste of entertainment to come, there were human marionettes, a short act of puppeteers and puppets, truly reminiscent of old-time cabaret. It got us in the mood.

And then there were the semi-naked girls. The quote above alludes to them. Two perfect specimens of the female form, beauteous and enchanting in the simple elegance of period lingerie. They wore panties, bras, striped stockings, and garter belts. Their skin pale, their faces impassive masks behind which were hidden who knew what thoughts, as they stood as the most alluring pair of living statues there. Before them were several containers of paint and brushes for audience members to paint them with. I abstained, as I was sure I’d never want to leave their company if I picked up a brush.

And then, the music. We open the evening with Thomas Truax , who uses a rather unusual instrument called a ‘hornicator’ and is accompanied by the competent (if rather unlively) ‘Sister Spinster’. The man is fun, energetic, original. He engages the audience, goes unplugged to rove among the fans, then returns to the stage and finishes his entirely too abbreviated set to applause I’ve never heard for a first opener.

On his heels arrives Fluttr Effect, opening with a hardcore cover of the Imperial March from Star Wars. Kara Trott was moving spasmodically to the music, a marionette with strings tangled. Vessela Stoyanova was awesome on the marimba, and Valerie Thompson is one of the hottest cellists I’ve ever had the pleasure of setting eyes upon. Troy Kidwell wailed on guitar, while Jason Marchionna energetically and very competently played percussion. Their music was both haunting and engaging, and again, the applause when they left the stage was deafening. Opening acts do not usually get this well-deserved response.

Normally, the audience would wait for a half-hour or so until the main act comes out and begins their set. But of course, this show was already anything but ‘normal’. A few minutes before the band stepped on stage a rather thin man with an unstrung tennis racket came out. His name is Al Millar, and he’s a contortionist. I’d seen him in Harvard Square a few years ago, performing on the street, and I enjoyed seeing him again. Well, except when he amazingly (and very audibly) dislocated his shoulders at one point in the act. Nothing quite like hearing a club full of people gasp at the sickening pop of a dislocating joint. And yes, he does pass his entire body through a regulation tennis racket.

And then Brian and Amanda, the performing duo that are the Dresden Dolls, stepped onstage. Amanda took her place at the keyboard, and Brian sat at the drums, and their energy exploded. I’d never heard their music, so I didn’t know what to expect. I was impressed. Their combination of piano, drum beats, and vocals are reminiscent of both cabaret and punk, with Amanda’s voice going from plaintive near-whispers to celebratory arias, and Brian’s drum work from gentle strokes on the cymbals to rapid-fire staccatos.

They were incredible. They were beautiful and damaged and happy and pained. A lot of their music involved alcohol, and it’s abuse. I’m not sure if there is an actual story behind it, but at certain points it sounded like a lonely yearning for something. At other times, it sounded like a raucous last call at a local pub. Actually, that pretty much describes all their music. From sad to happy, from playful to angry. The gamut of emotion played out on nothing more than a drum and a piano, with the occasional help of a guitar (also played by Brian).

If you get a chance, see this band. They are actually going on tour with Nine Inch Nails, so $16 seats may soon be a thing of the past. Honestly? Double that would have been a bargain for the experience we had last night.