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As I stepped out of my New York apartment and the wind hit my face, I wondered what my meeting with David Peterson would be like and if he would like the chocolate chip cookies I had baked for him. For the ignorant masses, David Peterson is the lead singer of the Crab Apples, which, despite the name, harkens back to 70s Brazilian psych-folk. ( There’s also a little bit of hip and a little bit of hop, but hip hop is nowhere in sight.) They sound like the Stones meets MGMT meets Ke$ha, and there are 27 people in the band on a rotational basis. And like most music, the music speaks for itself. It says, “Listen to me. I sound really good!”

I meet him at his place, and his usually aloof demeanor dissipates into a great big smile and warm handshake, followed by an uncomfortably long hug. I eye-rape him and see that he is unshaven and wearing leather boots, his right forefinger is home to a ring bearing the insignia of Captain Planet. His alpaca sweater is a testament to his heartfelt support of non-nylon fibers. (Peterson doesn’t care for synthetic materials. The coating on his electric guitar cable is actually corn husks and chicken feathers rubber-banded to the cables.) On his left cheek is a freckle so tiny one can only see it if one awkwardly stands above him and shines a bright light over a magnifying glass. He has many other freckles that are much more visible. His shirt lapel is off-kilter, at a 46 degree angle. His left knee jitters up and down in his Star 5 jeans, a brand so rare that he is wearing the only remaining pair, and no one knows about the brand except for him. His argyle socks are pulled up to his knees. Peterson is the apotheosis of cool. Argyle is the apotheosis of hip. Is he…hip-cool? Only time will tell.

We go for a spin and continue the interview in Peterson’s pimped out Ford Taurus station wagon. The purple paint job and fuzzy green seat coverings reflect the mystery of the man and possibly bad interior decorating taste.

The Crab Apples are truly stage performers above and possibly beyond their time. When the Crab Apples are on-stage, they are like a pack of hyenas, darting from one corner of the stage to the other. While usually the drummer remains oddly stationary, Sarah White, the band’s drummer, has a stage-hand for each drum, carrying it around with her while she walks around the stage in a windmill of drum-thrashing, body-moving energy in a sea of tightened skins. During a benefit for the Mildly Inconvenienced by Hydrotic Eczema (MIHE), the Crab Apples all donned fake facial hair to convey the passing of time and hair growth.

Peterson is a walking, talking contradiction and the nerve center of the Crab Apples, writing the music and playing most of the instruments. Peterson and the Crab Apples have revived the melting music landscape. They consist of three accordions, a horn section, and fifteen Aeolian wind harps, making it hard to pinpoint the musical identity of the Crab Apples. They defy categorization and yet can easily be categorized as pop. From the mesmerizing, ecstasy-charged beats (like the heart murmur of a cat on crack) of I Wondered Down the Street and BTW I Stubbed My Toe to the soft thumps (like the dropping of a pillowcase full of body parts on concrete) of When I Think of Nuclear Warfare, I Think of the Color Pink, the Crab Apples definitely have it going on. The third track on their latest album, “The Off-White Album” and latest single, “Satan has a Mama Tattoo and He Wants It Removed,” has just a hint of New Orleans jazz reverberating against a repartee of symbol and snare drum that

reminds me of my gentle nurturing during childhood and lemon-flavored cookies. “I like to think of it as like music but not quite there. It’s like what the 99 cent menu is to McDonalds. I like fried fish with a little bit of catsup,” says Peterson, his unshaved hipster vibe betraying his crack-lipped half-smirk half-smile.

We then step into his studio where he played Twinkle Twinkle Little Star for me on the drums, which oddly sounded like a metrenome. “We don’t make music. We make glorified noise,” he says casually, as he wraps his leg behind his head. Then he squints into the distance as if he could see the future, but I ask him about it, and he says, “The sun is in my eyes…but I can still see into the future.”

As I drove home and reflected on that cybernetic day, listening to the Crab Apples on CD, Peterson’s layers of orchestral nymphs seemed to declare to the world, “This is me. Accept me for whom I am. Good day.”

So good day, my friends. Good day. And may Peterson’s music be with you.