To steal unapologetically from Steinbeck: Slim Bone Head Volt is a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream. Slim Bone Head Volt is the gathered and scattered, tin and iron and rust and splintered wood, chipped pavement and weedy lots and junk heaps of an actor’s brain and a musician’s hands. Its inhabitant are, as the man once said, “whores, pimps, gamblers and sons of bitches,” by which he meant Vincent D’Onofrio. Had the man looked through another peephole he might have said, “Saints and angels and martyrs and holymen,” and he would have meant Dana Lyn.
The project’s theatrical roots are evident: Slim Bone Head Volt is the free-form system of Stanislavski mixed with the daring of Sturm und Drang and the broken fourth wall of improvisation; it’s Ionesco and Brecht meets The Last Poets and Tom Waits; a theater-of-the-absurd-in-the-round and unabashed circle in the square times of today.