The Sacramento alt-rock oddballs brought western rhythms, deadpan humor, and a sense of community to BayCare Sound last Friday.
Somewhere in Clearwater, a man named Dudley is now responsible for a fig tree.
He won it at a CAKE concert Friday night, after identifying the species from 45 feet away and promising frontman John McCrea he'd plant it, care for it, and share its fruit with hungry concertgoers if society collapses.
But before Dudley found himself making a lifelong commitment to a fruit tree, CAKE had already established that this wouldn't be an ordinary rock concert.
McCrea took the stage at Clearwater's BayCare Sound wearing a zip-up hoodie and army cap, his white beard catching the light beneath the brim. Nearby, horn and keyboard player Vince DiFiore sported a beret and safety goggles, looking like he'd wandered off the set of MythBusters.
Then again, CAKE has never been easy to categorize.
The Sacramento band opened with Willie Nelson's "Sad Songs and Waltzes," establishing a country influence that would weave throughout an evening of musical contradictions.
Acoustic twang mingled with haunting organ notes, Mexican-inspired horns, Texas-blues guitar riffs, and synthesizers that sounded straight out of an '80s video game. McCrea's low, conversational delivery occasionally recalled Leonard Cohen, drifting between singing and spoken word.
Somehow, it all sounded unmistakably like CAKE.
Western landscapes filled the backdrop, while inflatable tube men, the kind found waving outside used car dealerships, made periodic appearances behind the musicians.
"We are CAKE, and we are here to serve you," McCrea announced early in the evening.
What followed was part concert, part comedy routine, and occasionally an unsolicited psychological evaluation.
During "Sheep Go to Heaven," the audience joined in on the chorus, prompting McCrea to praise their powerful voices. He compared the chemical rush of singing together to drinking a beer. Not one purchased "from some right-wing billionaire," he clarified, but a beer they made themselves.
"That's America."
By "Mr. Mastodon Farm," McCrea was conducting the audience, using hand signals to cue alternating “A” and “O” sounds, and urging everyone to sing louder and more confidently.
For "Sick of You," he promoted himself from choir director to amateur psychologist.
Warning that the song was overwhelmingly negative, McCrea suggested anyone experiencing a difficult divorce, unemployment, or an unfortunate psychedelic trip might want to take a walk until intermission.
Everyone else was welcome to join him for some inexpensive therapy.
He divided the audience into two camps: escapists who distracted themselves with video games and online shopping, and angry people who lost their minds over bad drivers and strangers being wrong on the internet.
Which was more powerful in Florida, he asked: escapism or hostility?
The crowd seemed perfectly happy to play along.
Greying Gen Xers mingled with younger alternative kids, sometimes accompanied by their parents. The lawn was crowded with dancing fans, and despite McCrea's relentless sarcasm, the atmosphere was remarkably friendly.
Following intermission came the fig-tree giveaway. McCrea warned that accepting the tree meant a decades-long commitment, possibly longer than any of the recipient's relationships.
He also warned Dudley that if he failed to follow through, the other concertgoers had permission to hunt him down with disapproving looks at the supermarket.
"That's what community is all about."
The second set opened with "Stickshifts and Safetybelts," its steady bass rhythm and McCrea's low vocals recalling Johnny Cash, before "Meanwhile, Rick James..." introduced synthesizers that shifted between sci-fi soundscapes and orchestral strings.
Before "Never There," McCrea thanked the audience for choosing CAKE over the countless other entertainment options available that evening, including Game 1 of the Rays’ World Series run. They could keep in touch through phone calls and social media, perhaps even monitor one another's diets, but none of that could replace being together in the same place.
The opening notes of "Never There" drew one of the night's biggest reactions yet, bringing much of the audience to their feet. Many stayed there through Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive" and the closing stretch of familiar favorites.
That final run included "Billionaire in Space," "Short Skirt/Long Jacket," an organ-heavy rendition of Black Sabbath's "War Pigs," and "The Distance," which brought the evening to a close.
For a band that spent much of the evening singing about everything wrong with the world, CAKE seemed remarkably good at bringing people together.
Even after dividing them into two groups.
