My oh my, what will we think of the Age of Irony once it has passed?  When settled into retirement, will we look back fondly on the fashions of the "Pseudo" (the faux-80′s-chic, cowboy-chic, ad nauseam) that defined the look — and quite possibly the attitude — of the first decade of the twenty-first century, or will we scratch it from our minds with the desperation of one hiding his or her middle school yearbook from unfamiliar company?

In any event, such ponderances must be quelled (or at least put on hold) on any occasion that lands you at 3rd Ward, the burgeoning North Bushwick venue that is quickly becoming like a tamer and better-organized (not to mention legal) version of those artist squats of 1980′s Alphabet City.  Saturday night the member-fueled artist center played host to an album release party for the Ithaca-based quartet We Are the Arm, a synthesizing extravaganza of a band that seems not so much to have embraced the nod to the 80′s one has grown accustomed to, as they have delved into that decade full-force, emerging with a symphony of technology labeled as music. 
 
First though, drinks and mingling (not in a mood to chat?  Head over to the automated chime machine — unofficial name — where you can watch the dozens of synchronized xylophone bars and cymbals going off).  About thirty or so of us then wander into the main room for the opening act, Your 33 Black Angels, a seven-member Weezer/Lou Reed ragtag that inexplicably has three guitarists and whose most memorable feature, though they were certainly likable, was the lead singer’s propensity for jumping up and down and taking his shirt off to play the bongos.  One wishes they’d lose one of the guitars and stick with the folksier tracks like "Knock on My Door" that suit Josh Westfal’s croaky voice quite attractively (much more so than the unnecessary removal of his clothes did, in any case). 
 
Gets to be 11 or so, more cocktails and cans of PBR go ’round.  The crowd has swelled to about sixty, and we squeeze back into the main room for We Are the Arm.  Now, perhaps you yourself have never wondered what it would be like to be dropped into the audioscapes of an original Nintendo game.  If that is the case, then it seems wisest that you leave these electronic diddies to those that retain a fondness for the theme songs of Spyhunter, TMNT, Contra, and Duck Hunt (Duck Hunt!!).  I have heard We Are the Arm described in separate accounts as sounding like Devo, Ween, Blue Man Group, Flight of the Conchords, and antiquated PSA commercials.  None of these depictions are inaccurate (nor meant to connote dislike), and there was certainly enough variance in pace and tone in the set played Saturday night to merit such eclectic comparisons. 
 
Then, of course, there is the revelation of a front-man that is Bren.  I confess that during the opening act, I noticed a shy-looking man leaning against the wall on the far side of the room, hair parted neatly, tucked-in shirt with pens in the front pocket, and a sweatshirt tied around his waist, and I had to ask myself in all candor if this was the genuine article, or the advent of the Psuedo Nerd-chic right there before my eyes.  He turns out, naturally, to be the lead singer of We Are the Arm, and what a show he puts on ("playing" the synthesized oscillators)!  One struggles to determine how much of his affable geekiness — in turns reminiscent of Louis from Revenge of the Nerds and, yes, Kip from Napoleon Dynamite — is an act, and how much is genuinely Bren.  Thankfully, the sneaking suspicion tends towards the latter, especially in consideration of how sincerely and thoughtfully their songs are arranged.  It would take a true fan (and near representative) of that decade’s syncopated sounds to reconstruct them as We Are the Arm has, and if you count yourself among those who are attracted to such an idea, their extravaganza is not to be missed. 
 
Of course, if one desired to hear a sampling of this music, but didn’t have the new album Togetherness in hand, he could at least get a nudge in the right direction if he swung by Barcade in Williamsburg and plopped a quarter into any one of the machines…