The Justice Tour: The Crocodile, Seattle, 3/23/2009

Am I allowed to say that rocked?

Am I allowed to say that the venue was small and smelled of paint? That the backstage was basically a screen that apparently had the power of Mary Poppins's magical bag judging from the sheer number of techies, children, and various other mysterious persons who zipped in and out of existence? That the night was plagued by technical difficulties including, but not limited to; a failing microphone, ineffective lighting cues, one guy stepping on another guy's guitar chord, Tom not knowing the words to his own songs and awkwardly stalling while a roadie ran to the dressing rooms to fetch the cheat-sheets, then drafting audience members to hold them up?

Am I allowed to say that none of that stopped this from being the single most perfect rock and roll show I've ever been to?

There's a moment we're all after when we go to rock shows. A moment of complete and total happy abandon where everything just rocks so hard and comes together so well that you forget everything else. These are moments when crazy stuff happens. This happened to me tonight.

It helped that I had great seats. Arriving an hour or so early we got a nice, early spot in line and were some of the first into the Croc. Tickets were sold out and the room was going to be full to capacity, so this part was important. I claimed a spot right in front sat with my back to the stage, waiting for the show to start, pondering such deep questions as "who'se American Flag guitar is that?" and playing "guess whose legs" with whatever pair of nikes/parachute pants was visible behind that not-so-private curtain.

By the way, anyone who says Seattle people aren't friendly have obviously never actually talked to them in their rock-club element. An aging grungie with a big smile and an effusive personality struck up a conversation about how he'd been in Seattle in the early 90s, he was a drummer, he'd been so bummed when they'd closed the Croc. He'd been to clubs all over the nation, and this was THE club as far as he was concerned. He's glad it's open again, it's death would have meant Microsoft won: the corporate culture had finally stomped out the aging but still resilient grunge presence. Then he veered into a defense of drugs, and how drugs made him a better drummer, which is where he lost me, but he was a sweet guy all the same and I was glad to meet him. His name was Billy. He asked me to save his spot while he went to "shoot some heroin."

I stared.

"Just kidding, I'm going to go get a beer."

"Oh. Okay then." Grunge joke. Muaaa!

He left. His spot was promptly filled by three (or four) knattering women all wearing tons of makeup. I was fated not to like these women, but more on that later. First it's time for the black-lights, the oddly florescent guitar, and Wayne Kramer.

In an intro eerily similar to Boots Reilly's the first time I ever saw Tom Morello, he said he usually has a full band up with him (he's in the MC5), but he was "falling behind the Nightwatchman and Steve Earl." And with that he launched into two mid-tempo, warm renditions of songs I didn't recognize, but enjoyed quite a bit: Kramer made being alone with his guitar look effortless, which is frankly more then Tom Morello's managed to do quite yet, though Tom's banishing the mood lighting with "I don't look good in blue" was a nice way to kick start.

For the record, he's right about the blue. Something about his skin-tone: he turns purple. Not a good color on anyone.

This was emphasized when he read his introductory speech off of papers taped to the floor, managing to sound both enthusiastic and like he had. a. bit. of teleprompter. disease. Tom's a lot of things; he is not is a natural front-man, and his stage-banter skills still need some developing. He gets away with it because of his naked enthusiasm. The guy just oozes goodwill and a moral mission. A guy this much in love with what he's doing can't help but bring you along for the ride.

He introduced Blue Scholars, an excellent local hip-hop act who won my geek heart right away by jamming their first beat on an iPhone. Clipped, clever rhymes delivered with perfect dictionary precision, their songs ran together for me but the themes were clear ones that I related to, like the good/street hip-hop vs. the bad/radio hip-hop. As someone who dispised hip-hop until I discovered the topical treasure trove that isn't on the radio, I could only agree. These guys are good.

There was a frazzle to get set-up again, guitars and techs and wires everywhere for what seemed like a long time. Organized chaos with emphasis on the chaos. Eventually everyone came out, grabbed their gear (Tom had "Arm the Homeless!" prompting the squeals from me and everyone else with any sense in the world) and launched into their first song, which wasn't one I recognized. It's either new or it's just a cover I didn't know, but I was glad when they launched into their standard repertoire of such populist sing-a-longs as "Whatever it Takes," and "The Lights are On in Spidertown." Although the Freedom Fighter Orchestra again wore the starched, ironed shirts of the First Day of the Tour they've morphed into a tighter rocking unit since I saw them last: exchanging the kind of subtle (and not-so-subtle) signals of a group that's put in it's share of roadmiles, and even a few in-jokes. Tom's black Nightwatchman uniform looked anything but ironed. In fact, Tom's outfit was a mess. He looked like he'd slept in the dirt, maybe out of comradery with the homeless children of Seattle, whom he was advocating for so passionately during his speeches.

100% of the profits from the night's show went to a Seattle homeless shelter for kids and teens, and it's hard to hold a grubby shirt against a man whose heart was so obviously in the right place. It's a moment where you imagine you can see how, exactly, he gets all these legends to agree to play his show even though they're not making any money. All too soon the orchestra put their stuff down and disappeared behind the magic curtain, and Morello introduced "hero and champion of the working man," Steve Earle.

This guy is a legend for a reason. Talk about a study in making it all look so easy. Acoustic, harmonica, laid back attitude, just the right amount of fire. Talked about voting for Obama but still seeing all kinds of crap he didn't agree with all over the TV. Except this one: "There is no such thing as Clean Coal. Coal's an ugly back mess and once you get it in your lungs it never leaves. Looks like some people are trying to bring back the good ol' days of coal mining: when everyone did well except for the folks who had to go down in the fucking hole. This is a song for them." I didn't know his songs but Tom obviously did, and he was sitting right off to the side of the stage, singing along and clearly enjoying every minute. This guy's a hero of his; it was written all over his grinning face.

So imagine my annoyance when the females who'd crammed in front of me insisted on talking all through the quiet acoustic numbers. And talking loud, and giggling, and stacking their coats and purses on the edge of the stage which restricted the room the rest of us had access to, meaning we were crammed into a smaller amount of space then we should be. Would not take hint that they should move thier stuff. Me not like these girls.

Anyway, I sprawled over the stage and concentrated really hard and Steve Earle is quite something, he really is. After around three songs, he brought Tom and the Freedom Fighter Orchestra back out, and said this song was one off his new album of Townes Van Zandt covers. Now, Townes Van Zandt was a legendary folk hero who wrote beautiful, delicate songs. Listen to around three of them, and I guarentee you will want to kill yourself. Performing a whole album of Townes covers seems a risky endevour. Tom apparently plays on this track on the cover record. A lucky combination of Morello's electronic muscle-mass and Earle's sardonic, throaty singing negated the suicide-inducing quality that Van Zandt is known for and the show could continue.

Also, at some point, Wayne Kramer came out, picked up the American Flag guitar, and joined in the playing. He has the easy manner of a veteran performer, and gave the rhythm playing a nice steroid shot. He was also right in front of me. I had a front-row seat to his getting his guitar-chord stepped on as he was trying to plug in.

This is kind of the end of the "Annoying girls" saga, so bear with me. What annoyed me the most about those four girls was that they refused to dance. They bobbed their heads politely sometimes, but I maintain one of the golden-rules of rock concert-going is that if you don't want to jump around, you don't belong in the very front row. Hell, the band can SEE YOU THERE, and if they see you not getting into it, what are they going to think? This isn't the fucking ballet.

Fortunately, one of the songs Tom, Earle, and Wayne would play was "The Ghost of Tom Joad." If you haven't seen the video of Tom performing this with Springsteen, punch yourself in the face, then get to youtube. All kinds of awesome, so when I realized this group were going to play it live, I went a little crazy. The song didn't disappoint. The amazing thing about Tom (and why the people who call him a charlatan are wrong) is that he can launch into these crazy, pyrokinetic solos that contain some ungodly noises but he never looses the thread of the song. I love it, I love it to bits, and I was going to show that to the universe, spoil-sport stationary neighbors or no. I felt a bit like a one-woman mosh-pit, and got some seriously dirty looks, which was kind of gratifying. You know lady, if you moved those coats in front of you to down by your feet, you could step far enough away from me that I wouldn't be kicking you in the shins by accident. But you never figured that out and I couldn't be bothered to tell you. To the end I guess I'd rather be oblivious then out-of-line. Either way, the nice ladies didn't crowd me or even really bother me for the rest of the show, so that's the last you'll hear of them.

After this, a number of dudes left the stage and the set-up vaguely changed for the world premiere of Street Sweeper, the no-longer-secret band Tom and Boots formed a few years ago that they're about to take on tour with Nine Inch Nails and Jane's Addiction.

Now, I don't really like Street Sweeper. Boots Reilly is a human feline, the ultimate cool cat full of intelligent scorn and a lofty attitude and it just plain doesn't match the bombast of Morello's huge monster guitar hooks. Zack De La Rocha could face down a wall of electric guitars because he had such a livid delivery that such unholy, tormented, inescapable noise was a perfectly fitting backdrop for his rage. Zack's a molotov cocktail to Boots's cold beer, and it just doesn't blend. Tom needs to learn him how to play plugged-in without morphing into the 800-pound gorilla he really is. I didn't hear a single thing Boots said for his entire set.

Don't get me wrong, Boots is a hell of a performer and he's worth watching if just to see the way he moves, and the music rocked hard enough that there was plenty to enjoy, even if the songs all ran together and the volume of the microphone was so low that I couldn't make out the words anyway.

Also, Wayne Kramer totally flicked me a guitar pick. So not kidding. He looked right at me, smiled, flicked it high in the air, and it came down right on my palm. So I guess even if the annoying girls were too cool to show enthusiasm (in the first fucking row) there were some others who didn't object too much. I am going to have actually check out his band now.

I am really fading now, but I'm determined to get this written. I don't remember much of the specifics about how Mark Arm came out: relatively little aplomb, but also...plenty of aplomb. He took Boots's mic and was, for a moment, confused about whether he should sing into that one or Tom's Mic, since Tom had deserted his Front-Center-Frontman position, also for reasons I forget. He ended up keeping the hand-held one, shrieking through a song I didn't recognize it...again, but it had something to do with the American Dream, I hope I'd recognize it if I heard it again because I really liked that tune. Arm's singing can still peel the paint off the walls, and he's fascinating to watch.

The next big entrance had nothing to do with aplomb. It was mid-song. No one said anything at the time. He just walked onstage from behind the curtain and stood right fucking in front of me. And he already had his black Gibson SG strapped on. That was kind of all he had to do for the room to go completely mental.

For the life of me I wish I could remember what song they were on when he did this. I know he was there by the time the group (now consisting if Kid Lighting, Tom Morello, Wayne Kramer, Tom's drummer guy, and... uh, the new guy) launched into "Kick Out the Jams!" which is a song I like under any circumstances, but.... especially these. Um, it rocked. It really really rocked. I can't say much more then that, except...fucking wow.

Yes, it was Kim Thayil. He had a neatly trimmed beard, a long, frizzy ponytail, and carried himself like a king: movements reserved but powerful, eyes fixed mostly on his instrument. This is a guy who doesn't screw around. He doesn't have to. Ladies and gentlemen, the Grunge Lords are in the house.

And he was RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME. I mean, I had to be careful where I threw my devil horns so's not to hit him. I was so close the only way he could really have seen me was if he looked straight down. I could have reached out and touched him. I didn't, that would have been weird, but I could have.

Song over. Mark left. Tom headed off to stage right, introducing Ben Shepard, also looking lordly and somber, handling his black fender bass like it was serious business. Tad someone, and a name I didn't catch that must have belonged to the handsome blond drummer* who took over the kit, giving Tom's poor guy a much-deserved break. I'm sure he was a big deal too, but I didn't know him. Tom introduced them as "Tadgarden" which was totally lame but didn't matter because they'd launched into action and...uh...

See, I pride myself on my ability to describe almost anything. I can't describe "Tadgarden's" set. Well, yes I can. It was Soundgarden without the vocals. The Tad's microphone was turned so low that his Not-Chris-Cornell-factor was easy to ignore, as was he. I had a frontrow seat to Kim's guitar work. The last song they played was "Let me drown." And they were... fucking... Soundgarden. Or at least, the closest we're probably ever gonna get. And there were kids backstage, sporting headphones and getting what was probably their first good look at "Dad's Old Band." I could relate. I was less then ten years old when Soundgarden were big, and this was my first real look at what all the fuss was about.

And this fuss was about a whole fucking lot. These three guys, with all the signs of the unrehearsed, took all of around ten seconds to morph together into what might be the tightest rocking unit I have ever seen live.

EDIT: Okay, this is a major Mea Culpa: That Handsome Blond drummer was Matt Cameron. Yes, THE Matt Cameron. My only excuse is that looking at old pictures of Soundgarden depresses me, and Cameron wasn't on the formal bill. Apparently he had told the press he wasn't going to show up, then changed his mind and ended up behind the drumkit. Awesome. Chris Cornell, the spoilsport, wasn't there because he's too busy living la vida popstar somewhere in South America, but you almost didn't miss him: not with Tom Morello gleefully playing 2ed Guitar like it was a childhood dream. Would have been nice to have some singing to go along with the song, but Tad's microphone was turned so low that if you wanted vocals, you had to provide them yourself, and plenty did.

Tom looked like the happiest man ever to play 2ed Guitar. "I haven't been this fucking excited in a long time. It's like I won some kind of contest or something." Tad started to ask what people wanted to hear, but Kim didn't even wait for him to finish the question before launching right into the intro to "Spoonman." They roared on like a freight train from there.

Rock epiphanies. We live for them. That and the dirty looks the annoying stationary girls shoot me when I'm leaping around, and I swear I did a lot of that. Cornell's solo show didn't have half this much electricity, even at it's highest moments.

There wasn't much you can do to beat a glimpse, however brief, of a genuine legend, so they wisely wrapped with an all-star version of Tom's favorite rebel jam, "This Land is Your Land." Mark Arm was summoned back and told to grab a microphone (he had been standing just offstage for the entire Tadgarden set). Wayne Kramer came back, Steve Earle came back, Boots came back, everyone except Blue Sky came back. "Get Kim back out here, he needs to rock a solo on this one," said Morello, and Kim appeared, grabbed the cable and plugged in again. I was already familiar with Tom's closing-act trick of bringing up the house-lights and telling the whole room to jump up and down, but apparently whoever was in charge of the lighting booth wasn't, and although the blue lights went up, the house lights remained off. The singers handed off the verses, and Mark Arm's verse was tragically foiled by the fact that the microphone he'd found wasn't turned on. He spent the rest of the time singing into the bassist's back-up mic. And we did jump, appropriately enough, to Kim's grungy, dirty, virtuosic solo. It was a fucking big finish.

And when it was all over, the clearly still pumped-up Wayne Kramer, walking outside for some fresh air, grabbed me and hugged me. "I'm glad you came!" he said.

Best show I have been to in my life.