A Night at the Roxy: 11-4-09

My first solo expedition into LA, to a club with no little mythology of it's own thanks to the fame of the Sunset Strip. The Viper Room, the Wiskey A Go-Go, the House of Blues, and the Roxy. I wasn't sure really what to expect. What does fame bring a place, really?

Apparently it brings it a section of V.I.P tables so precious that the bouncers won't even let you lean against the half-height wall that surrounds them. There's definitely a percentage of people who patronize this place for reasons other then an interest in music.

You could see them, hovering around the bar, talking, looking important, and completely ignoring whatever poor guy happened to be making noise on the stage at that moment. They were sitting at the tables like that older gentleman, engrossed in conversation with his two playboy-bunny lady friends sporting boobs that could double as emergency life-rafts. There was one short older lady accompanied by two younger guys who stood really close to the stage and looked stony all night. There was one tall thin girl off stage left who looked like she smelled something foul. There was the drunk dude with all the yakuza tattoos who wanted me to know all about his metal podcast that he does with some guy from New York. He was trying to pick me up, but not in a threatening way: I think he was just drunk and lonely. Those are just the ones I remember off the top of my head. The Roxy is definitely prime ground for people-watching.

It's also definitely built with the live show in mind. The ceiling was high, the stage was low, the bar (technically two bars and a cocktail waitress) was in the back, the merch area has it's own alcove and bright neon sign. The men's room also had a neon sign. The ladies room did not. I call discrimination. Lady's room was also at the entirely other end of the venue, just off the lounge-type area by the entrance where I guess you could wait for your friend/date/agent/escort to show amid red light-bulbs, smokey mirrors, and a giant poster for a Bruce Springsteen show. At the Roxy. From the "Born to Run" tour. That's the kind of place this is.

Anyway, the first band up was Putnam Hall, a power trio with a long, lean, Asian front-man with a reedy, barking voice and a little slab of a guitar, an aloof drummer who gives off a sort of "adult supervision" kind of vibe, and a bass player who really impressed me by wielding his large, heavy instrument like he was born with it in his hand. You don't often see BASS PLAYERS who are showmen, yet all four bands that night had charismatic bassists. I'm not familiar with Putnum hall's music, and it didn't make that strong an impression on me, but they were enjoyable. They have a striped-down indy rock kind of vibe. They are also apparently good friends with Resident Hero, who's front-man was spotted in the audience and honored with a rousing, tone-deaf cover of his hit "Happy Without Me." It was endearing.

The next band Media Orphan had a sax player. That just about sums it up. And it seemed like the snazzy-hatted-bassist was the band leader. Also a short, stocky guitarist as proud as a peacock with a full tail of feathers, and an even MORE aloofly amused drummer. They also had a dedicated singer with a barrel build and a voice to match. I wish they'd given the sax more solo time: that instrument gave the band a kind of film-noir flavor that could really have been taken farther. How cool might a jazz-age rock band be?

But Resident Hero was who I came to see. Ever since I encountered their live-video special and got "Happy Without Me" stuck irrevocably in my head for two days, the more I learned about this group, from the raw honesty of their sound to the fact that Ryan White (the frontman/songwriter/band leader) still waits tables and can't seem to land a record deal, the more I liked them. I got their White EP and wore it out. Then I got their album and am still in the process of wearing that out too. Their brand of music is melodic rock with teeth, both beautiful and intense, and I was determined to catch them live when I could.

They didn't disappoint. They are one of those groups that walks onstage and explodes. Ryan White, who has a round, boyish face completely dominated by a pair of huge blue eyes, is kind of the most non-threatening-looking guy to ever transform into a shrieking, heart-sick demon when he gets onstage. He's the kind of performer who can do knee-slides and thrash his instrument without the slightest hint of cheese, because the emotions just run that high.

The broad-shouldered bass player is like a superhero, playing from a stance so wide he's basically doing the splits, with a five-stringed instrument and a sizable board of effects peddles. I wish to hell I could remember what Ryan White asked him for, something to the effect of "Play me something dirty and magnificent" but the result was a roaring intro to one of my favorite songs, "Life in Hell," which brought the house down.

And I was surprised by the drummer: lean, sharp-edged and long-haired, he's got the kind of dramatic flare you don't normally see this side of Brian Viglione* hollering the words without a microphone, pulling his hair, rocking back and forth, shooting himself in the head with a drumstick... it's like the music is all in his head and it's ripping him apart. He's the face of the story. Together this power trio crammed more passion and more fire into their seven-song set then some hour-long shows I've seen in my life. It was so worth the hour-and-a-half I spent in the car.

Lukas Rossi was the headliner. I'd run into his eye-lined self outside the venue when I first arrived to hear Resident Hero sound-checking, which made me happy, but the box-office closed, which made me less happy. He came out of the front door, and since no one else was around, I asked him when the box-office would be open, and he told me eight and I was relieved. That was kind of as deep as our conversation got, but he did laugh at a lame joke I made about his glittery hat giving him the power to fly, so I was kind of obligated to at least check out his set. His very professional street-team leader also cornered me after Resident Hero, saying she thought she recognized me but giving me a wrist-band and telling me she would want to know what I thought of Lukas after the show. I said I'd stick around.

I lied to them. It was almost midnight. I had an hour-and-a-half drive ahead of me to get home. Watching Lukas, immediately after Resident Hero was an interesting study in contrasts. Resident Hero are not virtuosos, but they set the stage on fire. This Lukas clearly IS a virtuoso. He's got a voice that can shift effortlessly between Thom-Yorke style eerie balladeering, punk-rock-barking, metal screaming and everything else. His band were slick and professional, and he had some vaguely amusing banter with his alcoholic bass player. He was deft on his guitar and just oozed style. He was the only one to actually have a small crowd standing exactly at the edge of the stage, gagging to see him. But he could not wake them up. Looking around I saw polite head nodding and toe tapping. That was as much enthusiasm as people could muster for the evening's headliner, and he'd been playing for forty minutes already.

I bailed. Sorry Lukas, sorry street-team lady, but if you're gonna play last, you better be worth the wait and you just weren't.

Anyway, Dear God, make Resident Hero super-stars already please. And while you're at it, world peace would be nice too. Alright? Thanks!


*if you don't know who Brian Viglione is, he was the drummer of the theater-geeks-turned-rock-star Dresden Dolls. Check out his theatrical magnificence here.

Pearl Jam at the Viejas Arena: 10-8-09

This was how it went. The show was in San Diego. My sister lives in San Diego. I figured I could go to San Diego, see the show, and crash at her place. However, the Angels had a playoff game at the very day of the concert. My dad got tickets for my sister and himself. She would not be in San Diego at the time. She told me I could still come, and she ordered her boyfriend to look after me. This ended up working perfectly.

My sister's boyfriend is named Mike. He was extremely accommodating. So much so that he was actually OK with us ditching the lousy seats we were given and sneaking closer. So instead of being up in the nosebleed section staring at Matt Cameron's back all night, we were actually only a few rows up, off stage left--

But you know what, you don't really care about any of that. I'll talk about the show now.

First off, Ben Harper rocks. There's lots of other ways to say that, but none of them sum it up so nicely. He's clearly a powerful enough force to rock a venue on his own, and he deserved way better then a half-empty arena of concert-goers who are barely paying attention. At least they WERE barely paying attention until the tiny, flannel-clad Eddie Vedder staggered onstage and he and Ben ripped through a cover of "Pressure" which really woke everyone up.

Eddie, it turned out, wasn't just staggering around because he's clumsy. Someone who made his name climbing hundreds of feet onto lighting fixtures, leaping over speaker cabinets, and generally being a human tornado wouldn't have made it into his forties if he was clumsy, but at this show he'd be limiting his stuntwork to some gravity-defying yoga-type poses with the very sturdy microphone stand. Other things he tried, like the jumps, the throws, and the simply walking across the stage wouldn't work so well for him.

Blitzed. Three sheets to the wind. Shitfaced. Hammered. Furry. Zipped. Talking to Earl on the Big White Phone (my favorite). Call it whatever you want, it's probably why Eddie Vedder squeaked on his highest notes and breathed through his lowest, but losing his voice didn't stop him at Outside Lands, so getting swimming drunk wouldn't stop him in San Diego. Pearl Jam was wrapping up the American leg of the Backspacer world tour with this show, and three members of the group spent important parts of their lives in the city so they were treating it like a homecoming and celebrating accordingly. "We got lots of family and friends here," said Eddie, "and you guys are making us look really good, so thank you!"

As usual, you'll have to go elsewhere for the setlist. It didn't strike me as that special until the encores, which were heavy on the hits, but this was one of those shows where the energy hit the roof early and just stayed there. The crowd was on their feet, almost every song was a sing-along, and the group were fired up. Quoth Eddie: "We got a shitload of amps and guitars, lets blow the roof off this motherfucker."

THIS is why Pearl Jam has made it almost twenty years. played tens of thousands of shows over almost twenty years, but they seemingly effortlessly convince you that tonight, tonight, is as special for them as it is for you. They are as glad to see you as you are to see them. After tens of thousands of shows to massive audiences all over the world, how the hell they manage to do it is beyond me, but Mike (who had only a passing knowledge of Pearl Jam) walked out of there talking about what a down-to-earth, genuine, likable guy that singer seemed to be. He said it was cool that they played "Last Kiss" facing the seats directly behind them where Mike and I would have been if he hadn't gotten away with stealing closer. That was considerate of them. Then Mike asked if he could burn my Pearl Jam CDs to his computer, and what that song they'd played about surfing was called.

It was called "Amongst the Waves" and it was from Backspacer. We listened to it in the car on the way back to the apartment. Eddie had intro-ed that song by saying "This is a song you'll like if you're a surfer. Or you'll like if you're in love. If you're a surfer in love it'll blow your fucking mind." They ended up playing most of Backspacer that night, including "The Fixer," "Got Some," "Johnny Guitar," (less obnoxious live then it was on the record) and a powerful version of "Just Breathe" that featured just Eddie, alone, with an acoustic guitar. "We've been playing this with a string quartet, but...fuck it, this time I'm going naked." For the record, he remained fully clothed throughout the whole show. Just saying. Mike said that song was what proved to him what a singer Eddie Vedder really is. Even if I, sadly, can no longer deny that the alcohol and a lifetime of smoking have eroded the window-rattling power he had when he was twenty-five, the raw, unironic, unapologetic honestly of his voice is still among the most formidable weapons in Rock and probably (hopefully) always will be.

Eddie told stories about the band's respective histories in San Diego: Matt Cameron was born there, Mike McCreedy lived there as a kid, Eddie spent about two decades there after leaving Illinois, discovering surfing, learning guitar, and working odd jobs as well as morphing into the open wound he'd be when he shipped a demo-tape to some dudes in Seattle who were looking for a singer.

One more story from Eddie: Pearl Jam's single longest-running roadie (now working for Ben Harper) was the first of the band's extended "family" to take the big step into adulthood and have a kid. He had an adorable little daughter, all the more adorable (according to Eddie) for being named "Lou. What's cuter then a girl named Lou?" Eddie remembered going to the hospital the day after she was born to visit her, and catching the new parents on their way home. Dad went to put the new Mom in the car, and somehow Eddie was left holding this day-and-a-half-old baby, trying to shelter her from the pouring Seattle rain.

"She just turned sixteen today!"

He brought "Lou-Lou," a blond girl in a sporty hat who was only a little bit shorter then the front-man, out onstage, put his arm around her, and hugged her like an adoring uncle. Then he had the whole arena sing "Happy Birthday" to her while the band brought out a cake and had her blow out the candles. I didn't miss that when it looked like she didn't have enough lung-power and was gonna miss a candle or two, Eddie, hovering just over her shoulder, lurched forward to help, but she got it. Everyone cheered.

Someone just became the coolest kid in school. Suck it, My Super Sweet Sixteen. You brats all WISH you could be Lou-Lou.

I ask you, how many multi-millionaire, A-list, globe-trotting, platinum-selling bands would do that for the kid of a former roadie?

Mike McCreedy's old high-school drama teacher, whom he has kept in touch with over the years, was there, and that fact had inspired Eddie to track down an important teacher from HIS high-school days, and actually find him! "After thirty years, I just had to tell him..." he gestured around at the audience. "Check this out! This one is for them." And they played Betterman... which of course the entire audience sung along to.

Eddie talked about how he had worked as a night-shift security guard, and had had "a really great boss" whom he had begged to let him get a mohawk, saying "I really appreciate this job and it's a great job and I appreciate that you gave me responsibility, making me SUPERVISOR of night-shift security and gas-pump detail," he said with relish, "and I wish I could promise it would be worth it but I can't because I don't know, it might never go anywhere at all, and I like this job a lot but if I don't do this thing, this punk rock thing, I..." he didn't finish the thought.

And his boss thought about it, hemmed and hawed and eventually said "Yeah, you should do it."

The boss was actually there that night: a huge black guy in the VIP section that Eddie kept pointing at through the whole story. He was pointing back and pumping his fist. The mood was so joyous and communal that Eddie closed with, "I liked that job, it was a great job, but this job, this job I've got now...I AIN'T NEVER GONNA QUIT!" You believe he means it.

I can't help but wonder if that boss had ever heard Eddie sing before he decided to humor his rock and roll dreams. I wonder if he suspected that he'd be standing in a stadium full of thousands of people all transported, all because of his supervisor of night-shift security and gas-pump detail. And his band, of course.

Who knows where talent comes from. Some people are just born with the raw stuff to conquer the world. But it doesn't do everything: far more people have talent then manage to build an actual life with it. Some crash and burn trying. Most take a look at the odds and choose a normal, reliable life instead, keeping their talent locked in a secret box inside them.

Some make it to Viejas Stadium, standing center-stage with their old mentors just off stage left, bursting with pride while an entire arena belts out the words to a song you wrote in your room when you were a teenager.

Also, there is Mike McCreedy. If you ask me he is, bar none, the best guitarist to come out of Seattle since Hendrix himself.

I'm going to quote Jason Owens of the San Diego News Network because it summises the ending of the show perfectly:

"While Vedder takes center stage on almost anything and everything Pearl Jam, the final two songs were definitely about Mike McCready and his guitar.

With the crowd hungry for another Pearl Jam hit, the band delivered with a version of “Alive” from the debut album that featured McCready and Vedder climbing on to the tops of the stage-side speakers as McCready wailed on what may be the band’s most familiar guitar riff.

By the time they closed with “Yellow Ledbetter,” which McCready transitioned into a Hendrix-esque “Star-Spangled Banner,” there was nothing left to give."

The biggest hits had already been played, but the show didn't end. Eddie thanked everyone from the heart and said goodbye, but the show didn't end. Mike had to leave to get to the car before he got ticketed, but the show didn't end. The house lights came up, but the show didn't end. Mike turned the end of his solo into a whole other song while his bandmates ran around throwing guitar picks, set-lists, and drumsticks at the crowd. Up until the very end, the energy level was just insane. Like that, it was over.

Finally the curtain call. Lou-Lou returned to the stage. The two music teachers, who had replaced their students for a cover of "Little Wing," also came back to the stage. Everyone threw their arms around each-other, and bowed deeply.

They don't make rock shows better then this one.

CAKE at the Fox Theater: Pomona 8/27/2009

Since I'm heading to Outside Lands tomorrow, this one will be a quick one.

Something was up with CAKE. I mean, I love CAKE. Their brand of architectual pop rock blues with a trumpet and John McCrea's chilly, detached speak-singing make them a band unlike any other you'll ever hear.

But something was up with them tonight.

The monitors were irregular, there were problems with guitars requiring roadie assistance, and tense conversation between band-mates. The show took a while to take off, probably because of the general strained attitudes of the performers.

And curiously enough, there was a "break." A period of fifteen minutes or so when they brought the curtain down and let everyone go to the bar or the bathroom. Now, the only other time I have been at a live show that had a break, I went to see a Jam band that'd been playing for hours already.

If I had to bet, I'd say the break was due to a technical problem that required more re-setting-up then the roadies could do otherwise. When they took the stage again, to a roaring cover of "War Pigs" the mood seemed more relaxed. By the time the show finally wrapped up, things had finally started to take off, thanks to a funny interlude about a tree that people were doing push-ups for, since the normal question of "what kind of tree is it" was a bit redundant considering the lemon growing on the tree.

And CAKE are a cool band. They all wear checkered shirts and look like your neighbor, especially the relentlessly normal multi-instrumentalist who has a different thing in his hand every time you look at him, and when he doesn't have a thing, he dances. The drummer hunched over his kit like he was worried someone would see him. Bassist played like he'd been born with a bass in his hand, and the guitarist tapped his heal, rocked his hollowbody, and swaggered like a guy who knows he is good at his job. And John McCrea was a real ringmaster in terms of orchestrating the audience sing-alongs, and he was in fine voice.

So I still love CAKE. But I can't help but wonder what the deal was that cast such a spell over the evening. I doubt I'll ever find out.

Elvis Costello at Aguas Caliente Casino: 7/10/2009

I left this show convinced of two facts. One; Elvis Costello kicks ass. Two: I do not know enough about his catalog, his history, and music in general to fully appreciate how much ass he really kicks.

On the drive home, my mom had to explain to me that His rendition of a deeply romantic love song called "Alison" contained snippets of "fuck you" songs from the 60s like "Tears of a Clown." Songs which I, being a child of the 90s and 00s, have never even heard of before: a hole in my education that I was never aware of before now.

Elvis Costello is way smarter then me. That's the third fact I left convinced of. He's also the only rocking frontman I can think off off the top of my head who performs in a suit and tie. I guess in recent years he's toned down his Buddy Holly style: wearing smaller glasses and incorperating touches like a violet tie and patterned turquoise shirt into his wardrobe. He plays his gold-top slung low, or his telecaster suspended in front of him with one hand: punkish moves Buddy Holly never did. And you'll still catch Elvis wiggling his legs like back in the day. More then anything else he has that quality that just dictates that when HE'S onstage, it doesn't really matter who else is there or what they're doing: he's the one you look at. That's a quality you can't teach: you either have it or you don't, and Costello, like Springsteen, and Reznor, has it in spades.

Which isn't to say his band wasn't worth watching. His back-up band for this tour was called The Imposters, and consisted of a stout, goateed drummer, a bass player all bedecked in head-to-toe white, complete with a white cowboy hat, and a keyboardist who's rig of keyboards, sythesizers, and odd gadgets would make him the source of the most interesting wailing, space-agey sounds. He even took a cue from one of Costellos lyrics and played a note with his toe, and him not so young neither!

Too bad the Casino audience sucked. For starters, any audience comprised of mostly middle-aged white people (and some younger white people) seemed unable to manage such tricky feets as "clap in rhythm" or even "Stand up out of their chairs." Costello was clearly gesturing that he wanted the people of orchestra level to gather at the foot of the stage, and since he did so during a roundy rousing number, quite a few people down in front tried to comply, only to either get dispersed by a house bouncer or by their own misguided sense of propriety. Bad audience karma. Blarg.

Speaking of house bouncers, this leads me to the biggest problem of the night.

Short.

This show was too short!

The show did not start until 9pm. It ended, after a highly abreviated encore, promptly at 10:35, the house lights came on less then a millisecond after the band had left the stage. B.B King also had this problem: the man could have played all night, but there was a house curfew to meet.

This is the downside of gigs at Casinos. This theater was large, state-of-the-art and beautiful, but the casino wants the show to end early. Their whole motivation for hosting the show is to funnel people through the casino, and they want to make sure the show ends with plenty of time for the audience members to gamble some more.

I know I'll be trying to see Elvis again, but not until I've done some serious homework. And hopefully, not at a Casino.

Wilco at the Greek Theater, Berkeley: 6/27/2009

This was one varied crowd. Not in terms of ethnicity, it was white on white on white, but in terms of age. Young kids, 20-somethings, 50-somethings, and everyone in between was standing in the long line waiting to get into the Greek Theater, presumably hoping to grab a spot in one of the ornate concrete thrones that lined the edge of the first rings of long, low steps that was the Greek's seating arrangement (more fun then folding chairs). I know that's where I would have sat if I could have had my choice. I know the rail is always fun but c'mon, a concrete THRONE? You get to watch the show like some Greek dictator watching the gladiators. How could you say no to that?

Anyway, I think I know how Wilco acquired such a generation-spanning fanbase. I brought my folks to the show, and they both left Wilco believers.

I first saw Wilco at Outside Lands last year. I'd never heard of them, but 2 out of every 3 conversations I overheard that day was people making plans to catch Wilco, so I figured I could check them out. I did, and I've been waiting to catch them again with some better knowledge of their back catalog. All I knew was they made a delicate, glorious noise.

Wilco is a six-peice band from Chicago. You want a full history, go elsewhere. You want a setlist, go elsewhere. This is what the show was actually like.

It even started out well. Well, not WELL, but with promise. I'll be frank, Okkervil River is not the best band in the world, mostly because a few of their members are downright lifeless: the girl guitarist (plagued by technical problems that demanded she fiddle with her les paul for most of each song), and the two keyboardists had about as much charm as cardboard cut-outs. But the tall, blue-clad bassist had a laid-back attitude that made being up there in front of a sold-out house look easy. Their drummer wailed on his pale-pink kit with a lot of fire, if not a lot of finesse. Still, if there's one reason to see this band it's that frontman, with his strong, clear voice and his effortless, effucient stage pressence. He was so energetic that his shirt was soaked through by the second song. He has real star quality even if his band doesn't.

Alright, we're done with the opening band: time for the guys we all came to see. And it hurts that they opened with Wilco (the song) while I was in the bathroom line, so I didn't get to witness live what I will always associate with Stephen Colbert and a strategically placed HOPE sticker.

There wouldn't be much else painful about the set. Wilco was flawless. Dad pinned "I Am Trying To Break Your Heart" as the moment where he stopped enjoying the show and realized he was watching something incredibly special. My mom couldn't get over the drummer. He was a classically trained percussionist, she could tell, and she was riveted watching him. It was the kind of performance that makes you listen to a band a whole different way. It's the kind of stuff fans for life are made from.

And thank Heebus Dreamer's bad audience karma stayed away this time. This audience knew lyrics, sang loudly to fill in gaps, and clapped (more or less) in rhythm.

As a native So Cal gal, I could have handled a little less bad-mouthing of So Cal from Tweedy ("They're saying 'thank you!' after songs instead of clapping. What's that about?") but the Nor Cal audience, of course, ate it up. And there was an adorable moment where Tweedy admonished the Berkeley crowd "Look what you've done to my son, you dirty hippies!" and a fine boy, around ten and almost as tall as his dad already, came sheepishly from the wings wearing garish tie-died pajamas. "He goes for a walk and he comes back like this!" Everyone laughed. The kid shrugged all dramatic-like and scampered off after Jeff's "Go take a bath!" Adorable.

EDIT: The kid, it turns out, is about 14 or 15, and an avid blogger. He writes about the tie-die incident here.

Jeff Tweedy would reference the joke later, dedicating "I'm the Man who Loves You" to his wife, who was apparently somewhere over near the sound board, adding, "Sorry I let our son become a hippie!" He was also heckling some guy in the front row who had passed out, then shrugged it off, then passed out again. His stage persona was warm, affable, even slightly goofy but completely in command. Like any great frontman, he made the impossible look effortless.

Still, my favorite member of Wilco is still Nels Cline. Their new-ish lead guitarist was poached from the improvisational jazz circuit and plays like a more eccentric Eric Clapton. Not kidding. The man's searing solos were almost always the highlight of any given song. Plus, I love anyone who can rock a pair of bright red pants and still look as stern and intimidating as a tall, wispy blond guy in his middle-ages can realistically look. He had a formidable guitar rack next to him and it wasn't just for show. What a wizard.

Speaking of Wizards, Pat Sansone, the multi-instrumentalist, proved he can rock a guitar with as much charisma as anyone when he's allowed out from behind his keyboard. My mom was so sure he was a teenager, he looked so young from so far away. Bass player too got his moment in the spotlight. In fact, everyone got their moments in the spotlight except the dedicated keyboardist. He just sat behind his keys and played. Well, I guess someone's gotta play rhythm.

The biggest moment of the night was the next-to-last song where every single member of the group grabbed a tamborine or a maracca and all built the tension, holding their instruments high while the percussionist, Glen Kotche, stood on his drumstool with his sticks held high in the air, dramatically backlit. I don't know what song they launched into when Glen came crashing down again on his drumkit, but it doesn't matter. The moment was perfect. And so was the show.

IAMX at Slims - 6/9/2009

I guess under other circumstances I wouldn't do shows at this clip, but this is my Last Month Here and I needed a pick-me-up. I'd listened to some of IAMX's stuff on youtube, and his dark, sleezy brand of pop appealed to me. A friend on Twitter unexpectedly helped out with a free ticket! So I had no reason at all to miss this show.

The friend was HardRockChick of live-blogging fame, who is, by the way, exactly as cool as you might imagine she'd be. She's sweet and soft-spoken and comes to life when it's time to talk music. After a few false alarms in which I weirded out a few slim, dark-haired people (though I AM sure I've seen the girl in the black ruffled dress somwhere before: she said she was a musician so maybe... Kimos?) we connected stage left.

The opening band was Hypernova, a six-piece pretty standard line-up remarkable for their curls, their glittery-but-driving hollow-body guitar riffs, their pounding drums, and their bespectacled frontman with the short beard, the booming voice, and the face carved out of wood. I think it would take him days of intense concentration to form a smile, even assuming he has it in him at all. They weren't a bad group, in fact they were actually pretty good, but I didn't enjoy them. And I'm not above accusing the frontman's inapproachable, unresponsive face of being the thing that stopped me from really connecting with the group. I'm not sure what this says about me and my standards. Upon hunting down the link to their myspace I discovered they are actually from Iran, which is interesting and makes me sad I didn't enjoy their show more then I did. If there's one place where rock and roll SHOULD flourish, it's in a country where those who play can be publicly flogged.

Maybe some smaller glasses on the frontman. This isn't nerdcore.

There was a very long interval between sets thanks to all the gear that had to be changed, so Hardrockchick and I filled the time by talking. Our conversation included, in no particular order: NiN/JA (her stories are MUCH more interesting then mine), Tom Morello's badass superpowers, how much Chris Cornell's solo show suffers from a distinct LACK of Tom Morello, how much "Scream" sucked, even live, Trent Reznor's now not-so-secret sense of humor and aggressive tweeting, how funny the concept of "aggressive tweeting" is when you think about it, Boots Riley's sense of fun, Ilan Rubin's raw talent, repeated my interview question and she promised she'd try and get him to answer if she can, Carl Restivo's coolness, how much we love Restivo's bubble-tweets and wish he'd do more of them, both hoping details surface about his twitter party, whatever that turns out to be.

Have I mentioned this Jaimie girl is awesome?

As for the main event, I can sum it up by saying my feet are bruised and covered in dirt. And glitter. I am never wearing flip-flops to this kind of show ever again. I count myself lucky to still own ten toes, but in happier news, Dreamer's Bad Audience Karma was LIFTED! If just for tonight! During the set a girl with a jangling outfit of feathers started dancing with me out of nowhere, then a girl with a short brown bob grabbed my hand and sling-shotted me to the front of the stage where I jumped, jammed and pumped my fist in my wonderful out-of-rhythm way until my poor unprotected feet couldn't take it anymore and I was forced to retreat, mercifully late in the set, only to get snagged on some kindly gay giant's button.

But this blog ostensibly isn't about me, so how was the performer, IAMX?

He was very...small. I mean, Jaimie had told me he was small, but I wasn't expecting him to be AS small as he was. He wasn't a little person or anything, but he's definitely tiny, so much so that I believe Jaimie when she tells me he has to make his own clothes, since most men's clothing doesn't come in a small enough sizes for him.

Good thing the guy melts some serious face. What a performer. His sweet tenor is full of an almost tender despair. His brand of dark pop filled the whole room, two synthesizers working full blast to keep the electric waves coming, but not detracting from the vitality of the live performers: a keyboardist woman in some truly horrific make-up and a guitarist with an open shirt and a headband. They commanded almost as much attention as the frontman did, singing back-ups and leaping on things, clapping and doing whatever they could to get the audience fired up.

It worked. They were fired up. I'm not familiar enough with his catalog to tell you what his setlist was, but the audience adored him and I heard sing-alongs at more then one point. Wow. Remarkable.

When it was all over, I counted all ten toes (thank goodness), bid a fond farewell to the Hardrockchick, thanked the gentle gay giant for unhooking me from his button, looked in vain for the woman who had dragged me to the front row, told Gentle Gay Giant to thank her for me, bought some buttons, and went home.

Good people make for good times. It's a truth.

A Night At Cafe Du Nord: 6/7/2009

I had just hung out with this friend last night, but he sent me a text anyway and asked if I wanted to catch a show. Turned out a family friend of his had a band that was kicking off their tour tonight, and he was attending. Asked if I'd go too. Sure, why not. It'll sure be cheaper then trying to bum tickets to see Janelle Monae which was my OTHER plan for the evening, so I hit the road.

The following will contain no coments about lyrics. Like most small places, this basement venue had a problem with drowning out the vocals. It was a low-ceilinged place, fairly dark with a large bar and a pool table stuck behind the stairs like they didn't want anyone to find it. Beers were three dollers, so it was better then Kimos.

First band was the Dave Rude Band. There wasn't much that was particularly rude about it, just loud. They were a three-peice that played pretty straight-up rock. It's kinda funny that for a band bears the name of just one guy, the frontman was the group's least interesting member. The manic metal bassist, hunched over his instrument with a scowl and some serious flare, was much more fun to watch. And the drummer's standing-up behind the kit fury on the skins bellied his well-groomed, Nice Jewish Boy looks. They were pretty good, loud, full of fast riffs and just the right touch of swagger.

I noticed that the next band setting up had an extremely professional air about them: all of their gear was decaled and the design on their kick drum was a lovely mixture of pop art and anime, a description which actually perfectly describes the motley-but-coordinated stage costumes of the band: sequins, dyed-hair in shades of pink, white, and black, eyeliner on everyone while still allowing the band their individuality. Their sound was pop-rock with some synth looping things up and an interesting dark undercurrent provided by the scuzzy guitars and heavy basslines. And this is also one of those rare situations where I have seen co-lead-singers actually work well together: the pink-haired pixie keyboardist and the guitar-wielding, eyelined frontman pass off the mic with their pure, pop voices. The bassist almost exclusively played from a stance so low he was almost doing the splits, the black-clad guitar player had some sort of problem with her ax that recurred throughout the night but she didn't let it slow her down too much as she posed like Dave Navarro and made the most of the tiny stage they were working so hard to rock. The drummer lady was barely visible behind her monster rig. I didn't even realize she was a lady until the set was over. I bought their EP for another listen. Hope to catch them again sometime, hopefully on a bigger stage with a less apathetic audience: Dreamer's bad audience karma continues...

I'm writing this a few days after the fact so forgive the following impressions if they're a bit vague: Triple Cobra is what you'd get if you took a couple old west showgirls and incorperated them very fully into a traditional glam rock band. The girls, with their feathered costumes and coordinated dance-moves seemed to be the band's main attraction. The frontman, who sported conditioned hair and more glittery eyeshadow and lipstick then either of his female sidekicks. He looks kind of like an effemninate Lenny Kravitz and acts kind of like one too. He flings himself all over the place, virtually injuring himself in the spirit of rock. Bubble machines, strobe lights, smoke machines and flying feathers all testify to the sheer chaos of the show, but somehow it worked.

And I got to see my friend again. Three weeks left in SF and counting...

The New York Dolls at the Grand Ballroom 5/24/2009

This is officially the most rock-filled week of my life. One would think I'd be rocked out by now, but hell, are you kidding me? The New York Dolls at a venue I wander by all the time? The New York Dolls? C'mon, of course I'm not gonna miss this one.

Me being me, of course I get the timing wrong and show up late: I missed the opening act and the New York Dolls were already 20 minutes into their set, so I grabbed a ticket ($30- more then I expected!) and went dashing directly into the ballroom.

The music hit me like a wave. This is a band that was built from the ground up for rowdy dancing. It's like time-travel: just like how B.B King offered a portal to the jazz dance-halls of the 50s, the New York Dolls will give you a glimpse of the New York rock clubs in the early 70s. You have to conjure the sticky floors, drag queens and drug dealers on your own, but you feel the mood.

And again with the bad audience karma. Round it goes, where it stops, nobody knows. The room was respectably about 3/4s full of mostly older white men and their mates. There were many Ramones-esque leather jackets in evidence. And the only people who were dancing were off to the left of the stage.

Well I sat through B.B's dance hall. Damned if I was going to sit through the Dolls. I also didn't want to be that dick who was jumping around amongst strangers who don't deserve it, so I needed to find some jumpers.

I finally found some in the very front row. That's how I ended up dancing with a goateed, handsome Russian boy who was very drunk and danced as badly as I do, so we were a good match. His sister arrived dressed in a self-made "Rock n' Roll Nurse" costume, which made me like her instantly. So I got my dancing in.

And I what a glorious soundtrack it was to dance to. This band is nothing short of fantastic live, and never let anyone tell you differently. So what if the drummer got ahead of the song on occasion? Train-wreaks are a Dolls tradition and no one does 'em with more flare. These guys strut, they pose, they preen, they wear gorgeous glammy trashy outfits and some stellar hats. David Johanson's throat is coated with sandpaper and honey, and with his heavy Staten Island accent and infinite swagger he can still kick your ass and look fabulous doing it. Technically speaking I think he's a better singer now then he was when he was young: age, smoking and tragedy have given his voice more texture and an edge of mortality that gives the slower songs their bite. He still dresses in low-riding jeans and women's blouses. He still owns the spotlight with the effortless charisma of a born star.

His partner in crime, the only other living member of the original Dolls line-up is rhythem guitarist Sylvain Sylvain: a short stout wiseguy with a vintage hollow-body and more enthusiasm for rock then a fourteen-year-old at a Jonas Brothers concert. the impression that he's a much better player then he chooses to be. He has got the technical goods, but for him style comes first, and his the bond between David and Syl is the beating heart of the band. David showed it too, always directing the spotlight Sil's way, declairing things like: "For this next song, Sylvain will play an acoustic guitar...and it will be so beautiful, that angels will come out of the walls and sprinkle angel dust upon everyone here." He was almost right.

Lead Guitarist Steve Conte (replacing the essentially irreplacable Johnny Thunders) wore a jaunty hat and his hair just so, and played his guitar like he could barely control it, even turned it upside down on one of the lights, rubbing the strings against the edge. The best thing I can say about him is he honors Thunder's memory while still having a kind of inept glory all his own. Sami Jaffa, the bassist, wore a pink waistcoat, a wide stance and a sneer. The drummer was bald, lofty, and aristocratic. They're as colorful a crew as you'll find anywhere.

It's hard to be objective about the Dolls. I have a soft spot for these guys so large it's not really a spot, it's like a huge bean-bag in my stomach.

When coming back onstage for the encore (orchestrated by Syl) David talked about how they'd never played this song live before. They were waiting for San Francisco, and I gotta hand it to the crowd: what they lacked in movement, they made up for in volume. He said to try and imagine what this song would look like. He said "This is an exorcism of despair!" and launched right into the rocking, which turned into "Personality Crisis," their single most recognizable tune/trainwreak and yes, it was magnificent.

Bruce Springsteen wrote that for a performer, your exhilaration is proportional to the void you are dancing over, and these guys (two of them at least) dance over the largest void imaginable everyday. These guys keep going out of love to their new band, as in synch with the spirit of the old group as you could wish. As important a group as they are (being the cradle of both punk rock and glam metal) they've never enjoyed the superstardom they deserve, and it's too bad because these guys are a masterful live band. Don't forget it.

NiN/JA Tour : Shoreline Ampitheater: 5/22/2009

This one has been The Big One for me for a good long time. Ever since I tripped on a twitter and fell headlong into Nine Inch Nails fandom, I have been waiting for this show.

The fact that it has Street Sweeper Social Club is a surprise bonus. One reason, two words: Tom Morello. That guy is everywhere. This has got to be something like his eighth band and normally I'd mock him for that but this time I totally don't care because every show needs more Tom Morello! It's the law or something.

Street Sweeper has really gelled since I saw their premiere in Seattle. Boots Reilly has got some seriously happy feet and watching him dance is fun just by itself, but with the volume turned up, his rapping's like a cold fast river. The Freedom Fighter Orchestra (now wearing different uniforms) have really come into their own. Carl Restivo especially flaunts that Gibson like HE'S the star, which is a big change since the first time I saw him, looking stoned and slightly vacant in the Filmore in SF way back in October 2008. This band has come a long way. My favorite song of theirs is STILL a cover (M.I.A's "Paper Planes") but they've proven themselves a real band, not a vanity project.

Nine Inch Nails of course were who I came to see: Trent Reznor and his crew of less-buff but equally pale side-kick/minions. It hurts me to admit that I think they got upstaged. Don't get me wrong, I ENJOY Nine Inch Nails music hugely and wore myself out jumping around to "1,000,000," "Discipline" and "Head like a Hole" (A song I was anticipating, "Survivalism" ended up sounding a bit like a train wreak) but...well, I donno. Something was just missing.

It wasn't Ilan Rubin: NiN's current drummer is 20-years of human-shaped whirlwind: all curly hair and flying sticks, and watching him get up from his stool to...I can only describe it as "scamper" over to the keyboard during "March of the Pigs" then scamper back to his drums was adorable AND rockin'! And that's an irrestable combination for me. Look out Jay Weinburg, you're not the only intensely talented percussionista prodigy out and about these days.

As for Trent Reznor himself, all I can say is that if ever a man was born to do a job, Reznor was born for this one. He's the Dark Prince counterpoint to Springsteen's sacred radiance, commanding the black fires of the underworld like no other performer out there. Modern times have produced no heirs. If he's serious that this is his last tour, then the music-loving world is about to suffer a huge loss, because his mix of rage, ironic tenderness, and genuine raw musical talent is worth seeing at least once in your life and I'm glad I can now say that I've done it.

It was pretty good. I was happy. Jane's Addiction, it turned out, would leave me happier, and not just because the two ladies in front of me were smoking a lot of weed. The show was a fantastic three ring circus with a more colorful lighting design and some surprisingly non-intrusive integration of a shadow-movie screen playing clips from Natural Born Killers and other films I've never seen.

Perry Farrel is easily one of the best frontmen I've ever seen. He makes the task of getting an audience to love you look effortless. Where Reznor kept himself to his brief speach about this "maybe" being his last tour (simultanius response is "boo!" and "Yeah right") Perry Ferrel chatted away like he was everyone's long-lost friend. Topics of his speeches included going easy on Obama ("Give him a chance, he can't be worse then what we had") his love of San Francisco ("We'd be your house band if you'd have us!") Bill Grahm ("I knew him, I know two of his kids, and his spirit lives on!") age ("I'm fifty, I hope I'm still going to shows like this when I'm 60!") and "faggy clothes" as an expression of freedom ("I'd rather die then give up my corset!"). The crowd adored him. His voice, though slightly distorted by a heavy echo effect, has an element of boyish sweetness that clashes with his decadent attitude. He's just a character, and he LOVES San Francisco. He should come back so we can elect him mayor.

Dave Navarro is always worth a second look. He seems to be frozen permanently in his mid 30s, and plays with his buff tattooed torso on full desplay. His stance is as wide as any classic punk rocker, and with his blistering, generally high-pitched guitar he sounded like a scar of sound, or a blinding flash of light. His playing is what gives the music it's teeth.

Perkins was playing in his underwear and hammering on two bass drums like he was two drummers glued together. He also couldn't resist mugging for the stage-camera to his left: he kept fixing it with deep stares, his head turned just so. Eric Avery, the original bassist and single reunion hold-out before now was the only one who didn't look like he was having an absolute blast. When Perry came to his side of the stage to bring the spotlight, Eric completely ignored him. He remained hunched over his bass, seemingly lost in the music and not really paying attention to anyone, even the audience until he decided to sit with his legs dangling off the stage. But he never lost the trademark Jane's Addiction deeply melodic groove, not even once, and it's easy to see how it just couldn't be the band it is without him.

The ignoring thing might have been in my imagination. Again, the ladies in front of me had a lot of weed. I left the venue feeling really good about the world.

This is being billed as Nine Inch Nails's farewell tour, and the comeback for the original Jane's Addiction (several attempts at replacing Avery have failed). Who knows what the future actually has in store for these two groups, but just this night, now was enough.

Kings of Leon at Bill Grahm Civic Auditorium, San Francisco: 5/21/2009

Some things are all about timing.

I've seen obscure indy bands rock bars, playing to crowds that exist only in their starry-eyed dreams. I've seen veteran rockers raise the roof like they were born to do it.

I've never before seen a band like this one. They've been rock royalty for years now in places like England and Europe but an American breakthrough always eluded them, until now. Their 4th studio album finally produced their first bone-fide radio hit, and sent them on this current tour, their first head-lineing arenas across the country, and they clearly relish their new status as stadium rockers. They've finally made good, they're touring hard and partying harder, their crash is still pending. This is what a band at the very hight of it's abilities looks like.

It looks really good. Kings of Leon are what you would get if you threw southern swamp rock in a blender with gritty urban sleaze and just a twist of high technology. It's the restrained antidote to overblown flyover rock, and it's convinced me that West Coasters like me don't really know what we're talking about when we talk about "southern music." There's something dark and almost cosmic in their sound that's unlike anything else I've ever heard. In a world before the music industry collapse, they would have been headlineing eons ago.

Kings of Leon is a family band consisting of three brothers, plus one cousin, all named Fallowill. Caleb Followill is the lead singer, and as such did most of the interacting with the audience. He was falling-over drunk, but it didn't seem to slow him down or affect his now-famous, counter-intuitive old-man wheeze of a singing voice. He kept thanking the crowd, remembering how they played San Francisco a few years back... as an opening act. "We were always opening acts." And latter, "I know there's a lot of stuff you can spend your money on right now, so thanks for spending it on us." It was all very well-intentioned. He even mentioned that the group has the day-off tomorrow, so they might end up partying with some of us. Well not me: I'm heading off to see some NiN/JAs. But it's fun to imagine anyway.

But mostly the stage banter was disposable. He gets points though for saying "This one goes out to all those people sitting down...you guys in the front, you probably don't give a shit about this one." They were wrong. Everyone cares about "Sex on Fire." It's the stuff we came for. It's mind-blowing.

Have I mentioned the show rocked? Some groups, you see them once, and you know you'll be a fan forever. That's it.

Who knows what the future has in store for Kings of Leon, but they've proven there's at least one real band left in the world who made their fortune the hard way and now get to reap their reward.

A Night at Benders

First off, Benders in San Francisco is a GREAT place to play gigs, get drunk, dance around and see live music. I've been in a number of bars, this is my favorite. And not JUST because their grill was still open at 11:30, allowing me to get meself a much-needed belly full of cheeseburger.

Really good vibes in this place. It's in a more residential part of the Mission district and it's got bike-racks, a low stage, tables, and the bar is right next to the door so that those who just want to duck in and get a beer don't jostle too much with those who are there to listen to the music and bounce around. The whole place just seemed like a happy place, and it was a good-sized crowd to, better then I've ever seen at Kimos, for instance. And people were DANCING.

I was there because I knew Inferno of Joy was playing again. I befriended these guys during one of their Kimos gigs, blogged about it here. They are still really good. They whip themselves into crazy sweats during their 40-minute bar sets. That frontman still wears the vest, the boa, the workshirt, the vinyl. Their dirty glam sound wouldn't have been out of place in the New York City the Velvet Underground and the New York Dolls inhabited, and I can't help it, I'm a sucker for a group that clearly cares so much about the show they put on. Guys, check these dudes out if you ever can.

There was only one other group on the bill called "He Who Must Not Be Named." This "He" was a shirtless, skiny guy in a Mexican wreastling mask who made a big show of being unable to talk in anything other then groans and squeals. This meant his band-mates, a female bass-player all in black with doc martins and two-tone hair, and a guitarist with an S.G, a cowboy hat, a cigarette, fine black leather loafers and a little black dress (Not a night out in San Francisco if there's not at least ONE man in a dress), had to translate his stage banter for him. It would have worked better if "He" wasn't suddenly singing coherent English after presumably having his will interpreted by his band-mates. But oh well. Also, the drummer was wearing a yellow afro wig made of These guys were a pretty straight up hard rock band: playing loud high on the fretboard and keeping up a pretty fast tempo for their entire set, which lead all the kids in what looked like a mosh. They even kicked over the drumset when they left. Rock and roll.

Short post, short evening. Oh well. Beddy time.

Chris Cornell at the Grand Ballroom: San Francisco 5/1/2009

I wasn't going to write this blog. But hell, if Hard Rock Chick can say it, so can I.

For those of you who have stuck with this since the beginning (thanks Dad!) you might remember that the first show I ever blogged about was Chris Cornell in Santa Cruz. I enjoyed it: it was loud, the band had fun chemistry, and Cornell's kid-friendly charm and effortless charisma carried the day. I hadn't heard much of his stuff (some Audioslave, some Soundgarden, and "You Know my Name") but I had a good time.

A lot has happened since then. "Scream" came out: you can read my opinion of it here. I ended up getting banned from Chris's forum for reasons still unclear to me (though some...'ahem, "spirited" debates might have had something to do with it.) But the most significant thing was that I've seen, in person, Chris's old bandmates. I've seen Tom Morello play three times. I've seen what a glorious monster he is. Pete Thorn and Yogi are excellent guitar players, but with their powers combined, they can't come close to the unholy might of Morello's infamous "Arm the Homeless" and when they play those Audioslave covers, damned if you know it.

And I saw Soundgarden. Soundgarden as a beast without a head, but a living beast. It was nothing less then astounding.

Chris played two of the three Tadgarden songs. They were fine.

Really, that's how I describe this show. To sum-up: it was fine.

Chris's backing-bandmates are more fused with each other and with Chris. They have the feel of a group with serious road-miles under their belt. They were fine too, but I couldn't help but wonder if, and why, they were jostling with Chris for the spotlight. Or why Chris would give it to them. They're HIS backing band, after all. I guess the respect-your-bandmates stage instinct hasn't entirely left him, which is to his credit actually but it makes for a confusing live experience: who are you supposed to watch? Why would you watch someone you didn't come to see? Who are these musicians anyway?

They deserve better. Yogi in particular is a lovely player with a fluid, effortless style and I hope that very soon he will have better gigs then this one.

Okay kids, today I am going to tell you about something called "Frontman Syndrome." Every music fan knows that you can't have a great band without having a great frontman: he's the face of the group, the one the audience is going to project onto. The best frontmen have charisma and personalities that become intertwined with the group's sound and identity.

When band's break up (happens sometimes) and those frontmen go solo, they often find they're suffering from the blessing and curse of being literally unable to open their mouths without conjuring the ghost of their old band. Or both of their old bands, in Chris's case. This is "Frontman Syndrome." It's nostalgia on such an unconscious level that it's often mistaken for something else, and the danger becomes when the singer himself doesn't know that he's cruising on someone's fond memories instead of current reality.

Chris Cornell has justified all the covers he plays by pointing out he wrote all the music for them anyway, but it doesn't matter who wrote them when that essential, insubstantial something is missing.

He'll keep touring. With each show he'll get more easy, more confident, more comfortable. And I suspect my love of the old stuff is strong enough to keep me comming back.

But don't go looking for rock fire here. It's like the brief, breathtaking pose that Cornell struck with his acoustic: legs wide, head down, hair flying as the band kicked in at the end of his solo acoustic set.

Seeing him in that pose, just for a moment, that acoustic is a skuzzy black Gibson. That hair is even longer. You see the shadows of Kim Thayil, standing a mile high, and Ben Shepard's cool swagger. You hear the ghost of Cameron's extra drums and flying sticks. And for a moment, a brief moment, you get the smallest glimpse of the stuff musical legends are made of.

Then it's gone.
What you're left with is just fine.


Also, those hecklers were back. You know, the ones from Tom Morello's show. I couldn't believe it. They started a goddamn fistfight right in front of me. Thank God they didn't recognize me. Dreamer's bad audience karma: will it ever end?

B.B King at Morongo, CA:

It's good to be the King, especially when you've throughly earned your crown.

In case you haven't heard of B.B King, you should know he basically invented the blues guitar as we know it, and to this day is considered one of the masters of the instrument. What, I guess, is less well known is that the man is also a damned good singer. Age has given his voice a texture that is pure, undiluted blues.

Interestingly enough, one thing he doesn't do is play guitar and sing at the same time. He sings, he plays, but he switches off, instead of doing them both at once. And his guitar sounds like a voice: clear and liquid with notes that shine cooly in the air.

Like Springsteen, B.B is a natural frontman. Out front is where he belongs, and where he's most comfortable: sitting on his chair, cracking wise with long, winding stories and playing off the audience in a way that gives you a glimpse of the sort of all-inclusive presence he must have been in the dance halls in his prime. I am convinced that bandleaders like him must have been the forerunners of the stand-up comedians as we now know them. A one-stop-shop for a night's entertainment. The only thing missing was the dancing that his quick, sax-heavy band was clearly built from the ground up for.

Speaking of that band, I have seen some good jazz acts in my time, and these guys were worth price of admition all on their own. I think the youngest member of that band must have been at least in his 60s, and they were so in synch they were virtually finishing eachother's sentences: musically speaking. B.B reminded me of no one so much as Bruce Springsteen when he had his band-members pantomiming the correct responses to his jokes (turning away in wonderfully self-conscious disbelief when he declares he has "never seen an ugly woman") and reading his mind as regards to the timing of the songs, the lengthly intervals filled by his rambling, often tawdy stories of blue pills and seduction how-tos. It's the kind of connection born of so many road-miles it's crazy. I could imagine the E-Street Band getting dropped into any venue and making it work for them, but their actual venues remain pretty uniform: B.B and his band really can play everything from Jazz festivals to indian casinos to rock clubs and will make it work for them somehow. They're that good.

B.B King is 83 years old. He sits for the entire performance. He has his guitar (the famous Lucille) and he has a microphone, and he has a band that can read his mind. He ended the show throwing whole handfuls of guitar pics and necklaces into the crowd, but we'd already gotten our biggest treats.

Hail to the King of the Blues.

Bruce Springsteen and the E-Street Band at the LA Memorial Sports Arena: Los Angeles, 5/15/2009

So...... that's what all the fuss is about.

Holy shit.

My ticket karma didn't hold. My seats were pretty far back. At least they were on the aisle, so instead of kicking the chair next to me, I would sometimes totter at the edge of the step.

But who cares about that when I think I just saw a miracle. Finally, I know what people are talking about when they talk about Bruce Springsteen.

And here's the crazy thing: it happened during the encore. It'd been a fantastic show, don't get me wrong, but during the encore something happened that just sent the energy level rocketing straight through the roof. I wish I could tell you what it was, I really do, but all of a sudden I realized something fucking miraculous was happening right in front of my eyes.

The band had played for around two hours, and I'd been really enjoying it, the whole set was noticeably both looser and tighter then in San Jose. I don't think I need to mention that the band sounded great, but they did, and my Dad, for one, left a devout fan of Max Weinberg: the Mighty One never stopped playing ONCE during the entire 2 hour and 45 minute set. While other people got to breath, Max did drum-rolls. Whatever stiffness he had in San Jose was not there this time. What a drummer.

Again, you're going to have to go somewhere else for the setlist, but it felt like he'd got the kinks worked out and settled down into a song collection that came on like a hurricane without breaking any of the pale hips in the audience. Two songs in the main set and one in the encore were sign requests: him grabbing them up, piling them on the stage, and plunging in like a kid jumping into a leaf pile in the fall, sending the rejected signs flying in all directions until he found the perfect one. Then he ran around showing it to the band members before leaning it against the mic stand where the camera could finally show it to the audience. Both songs were pretty amazing. I think "Spirit in the Night" might be a new favorite of mine. And Bruce actually talked to the crowd, both name-dropping extortions to get the LA people riled up and a sermon about building a house of love and music out of all the good news and bad news. He'd avoided addressing the crowd for most of the San Jose show. Now he couldn't keep his hands off them.

Really, I thought he spent a lot of time on his catwalk before: I hadn't seen anything: I swear to God, Bruce did an actual STAGE DIVE. Honest to God, plunging into the crowd body-surfing. One of the security guys had a hold of him so he didn't go far, but still! Sheesh! I don't think a single song went by without him taking to the stage skirts at least once so's the people could feel those sturdy, age-defying legs of his.

It did it's job. Somewhere along the line it actually, finally hit me: I am standing in a room with Bruce Springsteen. If I were down there in the pit, I would be able to reach up and feel him. He's really there.

That feeling is worth a hundred youtube videos.

Far away as we were, I felt like we saw more of Springsteen. At times it was almost like he wasn't so much a singer performing a song as an actor creating a character, a bunch of them, and switching them around and blending them together.

I've been trying to figure out what made this show so intrinsically different from San Jose. One of the most obvious, and curious, things was the distinct lack of red on the stage. Patti Scialfa wasn't there, and maybe I was imagining it but it seemed like Bruce, Nils, and Steve were switching their guitars more often, perhaps to cover up for the lack of her blue acoustic. Before Bruce launched into "Kingdom of Days," the song that had been his nightly duet with his wife, he shouted "This one goes out to Pats! And the kids!"

In a way the song packed even more emotional punch when sung solo. It was still a celebration of love, except it was love turned bittersweet. And great as Patti Scialfa is (haters can suck it!) maybe her absence was a large part of what made Springsteen's character so complete. The last time he was playing to crowds facing foreclosures, layoffs, and bad debt, it was the 80s and Bruce was alone. Although he shared the spotlight with Clarence (the spotlight never leaves Clarence for very long: he'd be the star if he was in any band except this one) and calling Steve out to holler his backing vocals, but this night was all about Bruce. I've described him before as being full of holy fire. Well, tonight he must have thrown some holy kerosene on that holy fire, because he was shining bright enough to be visible from space.

And he was fired up, too. He pinwheeled on his guitar like a madman. He grabbed that microphone stand and spun around like a kid on a banister. His knee-slide has become a staple of his shows ever since he awesomely sent his crotch rocketing into the living rooms of millions of Americans on Superbowl Sunday.

And if that wasn't enough: everyone's favorite political populist pyrotechnic guitar monster Tom Morello appeared from the shadows, strapped on that colorful guitar of his, hiked up all the way to his chest as usual, and proceeded to burn the house down. Bruce echoed the outraged screaming visually, holding down rhythm guitar from a fighter's crouch, eyes never leaving Morello, though he could not contain some awestruck gaping when Tom out-soloed himself and turned me into the happiest young woman on the planet. My life is complete. I could totally die now. Thank you universe.

He even had his suspenders back.

And to top it off, the "encore" wasn't really an encore: not if the band ends up playing for another hour. Tom came back to lend a bluesy solo to "Hard Times Come Again No More" and then something mysterious happened. The energy just went through the roof. I can't even describe it. The climax was symbolized perfectly at the final end of the last song, when Bruce turned his guitar into a hula-hoop: spinning it around himself until he caught it, firmly and perfectly, with one hand.

It's like the knee-slide. From anyone else it would be cheesy. From Bruce it was perfect.

Now I know what all the fuss has been about all these years. Bruce Springsteen. The last of the vinyl Rock Gods, the rock and roll evangelical who can turn despair into hope, sorrow into strength, and make you believe in dreams.

What a night.

Bruce Springsteen and the E-Street Band at the HP Pavillion, San Jose: 4/1/2009

What is there to really say about this show? In a way, I'm kind of reluctant to actually try and write about it. Not just because I'm dog tired, but because this show might be kind of beyond description.

Outside influences factored in. I went to see Springsteen with my mother. The last time she saw Springsteen, she'd only barely met the man who would eventually be my dad. It was 25 years ago.

When Bruce took the stage she let out a squeal and gave me a hug.

That was WHEN Bruce took the stage. The show started an hour late, as most of the attendees seem to have anticipated that it would, filling the vacant seats at the sold-out venue around an hour behind schedule while my mom and I twittered, marveled at the sky crew's high-wire antics on the huge lighting rig above our heads (one small blond woman was termed "Spiderwoman" by my mom for her high-speed, high-altitude surefootedness) and wondering what the hold-up was. My mom hypothesized that since this was the first show of the tour, they must be backstage fretting over the set-list. This was supported by the fact that every so often, some roadies would materialize, switch the papers lying around, and then vanish again. When one of them appeared carrying what could only be Clarence's saxophone, we knew it was only a matter of time, but still the waiting continued.

The house lights changed colors fairly regularly, and each change would bring hopeful cheers from the new fraction that had leaked in since the last lighting change. This was a big place. Not to brag, but we got some pretty awesome seats: around ten rows up behind the keyboardist's right shoulder, and it was hard to believe some of those tiny little figures almost out of sight, way high up in the distance were actual human people. So, this is a stadium. I don't think I've ever really been in a stadium before, let alone one absolutely full-to-bursting with white people over the age of 50.

At long last, the house lights went dead, and I mean dead, as in pitch-dark dead. There was just enough lighting from the emergency lights that we could see some shadowy forms making their way through the stadium's bottom entrance and coming up under the stage. The room was loud, pretty darn loud, with cheers and woops and clapping and "BROOOOOCE!!"

When the house lights came up, there they were. Bruce Springsteen and the E-Street Band. It was like Max Weinburg is the most overdressed drummer I'd ever seen in his silk shirt and waistcoat. Stephen Van Zandt plays his guitar like a gangster wields his machine gun. Nils Lofgren became my favorite by being the too-much-energy-in-too-small-a-packaging firework of a man with bones of rubber who soloed like Satriani (minus the teeth) and was never in the same place twice. Red-headed Patti Scialfa (a rare splash of color on a stage full of black clothing) had a blue acoustic, a calm face, and the sturdy, wide-legged stance of a veteran rocker.

Let me say a few words about the seats I got, because I was quite proud of them. They were around ten rows up, right behind the stage and could see everyone more easily then we could see the jumbotron. Or specifically, we could see their right shoulders, which were what they had facing us most of the time, but that was alright since it turns out, even Springsteen's shoulder has charisma. Also, the keyboardist would turn, look at, and point at us from time to time. I'm pretty sure he saw me.

You're gonna have to go somewhere else to get the full playlist, I didn't keep track. They started playing and they kept playing with no pauses, no breaks, straight from ending beat to intro beat for something like 40 minutes. Bruce didn't even address the crowd until a pause in... god what song was it, I couldn't even tell you, but he only chit-chatted some three times during the whole show. The first time was to shout out to San Jose and get people riled up. He wouldn't address the crowd again until the encore when he pleaded for people to donate to the local food bank accepting donations in the hall. I was glad to see their coffers stuffed by the end of the evening.

The rest was rocking. Hard core, full-steam-ahead rocking. No one in the E-Street band is as young as they used to be; Max was favoring his right arm, Nils was nimble but the night was devoid of dive-rolls, the Big Man was leaning against a stool for most of the set, and even Bruce winced as he pulled himself out of his slides. But they can still bring down a house.

I asked my mom how the show was different from 20 years ago. She said Bruce used to pile on the energy and just keep it coming until the end. He's gotten more mature since then, and his show is more evenly paced: sequences of hard, loud rockers and then quieter breaks. I'm a hardy soul and can jump around continuously for a three-hour show, but I was in the minority, and since I was forbidden to jump around anywhere except at my seat, even I had to sit down and collect myself sometimes.

Yeah, I had to jump AT MY SEAT. Lame, but I guess that's stadiums for ya. Also, Dreamer's bad audience karma continues: the guy next to me didn't crack so much as a smile for the whole show, and spent most of his time sitting down, his leg braced against the seat in front of him as if to ward me off. I have a bruise on my shin from where I kept knocking it against the edge of his chair, but since he never stood up, I couldn't mosh my way out of this problem. I have no idea what his goddamn deal was. Mom thought he might be autistic. He approached this rock show with all the joy of a corporate board-meeting.

My spirits were slightly mollified when they played "The Ghost of Tom Joad." The solos didn't hold a candle to Morello's, but who gives a shit. Nils the Soloist shone on this one, and Bruce himself proved he's no slouch at the shredding. "Lonesome Day" and "Radio Nowhere," were on the list, and they are some of my favorites, as well as the obvious Springsteen essentials like "Thunder Road" and "Born to Run." He even grabbed a couple of signs out of the audience: one of them said "I just turned 18, I need some GROWIN' UP!" and that's the song that they played.

If it sounds like I'm avoiding talking about Springsteen himself, I kind of am. Far better writers then me have killed many trees and even more hours trying to describe what happens between the Boss and an audience when he's onstage live. For me, it's impossible to do without delving into the impossibly, mind-meltingly cheesy. Because Bruce Springsteen has the light of grace in him.

Sorry, I just don't know any way else to describe it. The arena is dwarfed by the size of his soul, and when he's belting it out like he means it, you believe in miracles, you believe in healing, and you believe in hope. He's the antidote to cynicism, and this is a time when America deeply needs some of what he has. Springsteen no-doubt knows that, but it doesn't change that the album he's currently touring on is a personal album, full of songs overflowing with love and hope. Don't get me wrong, love and hope are really good things, but we're talking about the Clusterf@ck to the Poor House here. This is not the best time for upbeat adoring gushing.

The closest thing we came last night to seeing the real "Working on a Dream" tour was Bruce and Patti singing a romantic, charged duet on "Kingdom of Days" while they looked into each other's eyes from at least twenty feet away. It was the show he would be putting on if the stock market hadn't crashed, sending unemployment skyrocketing. If Bruce was into pure fuzzy escapism he'd be all set, but since he's apparently serious about tackling the times and fighting for the soul of the country, the sooner he gets back into the studio and re-equips himself, the better off we'll all be.

It sounds weird to critique a performance this tight and this full of non-stop rocking. If it were anyone else, I would have walked away more then satisfied, but this is Bruce Springsteen we're talking about, backed by what is considered to be one of the best live bands in the world, and they never really took flight.

Since I broke my own rules AGAIN and waited two more days to finish this blog, I can say, the San Jose Mercury had a much sharper review. Read that one instead.

Bruce is beyond me.

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.

Another Night At Kimos

I broke my own rule with this one, because I'm typing it the day after. I was so exhausted by the time I got home that I could barely get my head on the pillows before I was unconscious.

It was a three-band night at Kimos last night, and seems the theme was pop-metal. The bands were good: I had a fun time bouncing around, but despite some really impeccable musicianship none of them were particularly memorable.

With the exception of the singer from The Backup Razor, the first band of the night. That guy alternately morphed between a Green Day type bratty whine, a hellish metal demon's scream, and a Trent-Reznor sinister whisper. He was three singers in one, sporting impressive dreadlocks and some one-liners lazily mocking the crowd for hanging around the corners of the room. That was partly their fault: they launched into a one-minute long song about beer with Ramones-style speed, not giving anyone any time to get to the front. Their music is fast hard rock that's almost metal, and it's good fun for the nodding-your-head crowd, but two days on, I couldn't tell you what my impression of their songs were.

Two Headed Spy were also a four-peice, except their frontman had a guitar, their bassist had technical difficulties, and their lead guitarist had a vintage Rage Against the Machine T-Shirt which explains the more hook-heavy nu-metal of this particular group. The two guitarists allowed for a more filled-out sound, and there was a cool part where the lead guitarist played a bongo drum for a couple minutes, and overall their sound was more complex and detailed then their opening act. They even covered for their poor fumbling bassist by launching into an impromptu jam-session on a song that they later told us was unfinished. I enjoyed the fact that their arrangements were more detailed and subtle then the preceeding act, and in that, I think, they showed the most promise. I can see them evolving into something really special someday.

I was sad to say, and maybe a lot of it was my own fault for being so dog-tired, but as the last band of the night Solcraft were putting me to sleep. It wasn't their fault, probably: the lead singer spent most of his time off the stage, dancing with some ladies who were clearly friends of the band, and at his absolute worst he was still a strong singer. That guitar player was the single most impressive player of the night: morphing seemlessly from metal to blues to hard rock and back to metal, often within the same song, and letting fly on cue with some seering high-on-the-fretboard solos. But for me, the interest just wasn't there. I was more then ready to leave by the time their set wrapped up.

Walking back towards Van Ness (or as I like to call it "Where the Taxis are") was kind of like walking through a ghost-town. So many "For Lease" signs. And the big Virgin Megastore downtown (the landmark I can always use to find my way to the Metrion) is going out of business so I went there and spent $90 on stuff and enjoyed their chipper British live DJ while he's still got a job.

Times is hard.