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.

Still Cruising

I am still buzzed from the Seattle Justice Tour. Somehow I have a hunch this will continue for a few days at least. At least, I hope it does.

I'd like to share something I found on another blog, written by what looks like a veteren reporter on the Seattle scene.

Her photo of Ben Shepard really says it all. That's it up there, taken during the "Kick Out the Jams" sound check.

Tell me that is not the face of a man in love. He's coming home. He can smell it.

Thanks, Cherry, for that moment of sheer poetry. That's just wonderful. Inspiring.

The Justice Tour: Slim's 3/26/2009

I must have bad audience-karma. Two nights ago I was trapped in the midst of some loud killjoy annoying girls. Tonight I spent the whole time getting rammed into by some of the loudest, most aggressive, most annoying hecklers I've ever encountered. One of them humped me at one point. I put up with it because I wanted that spot near the stage. I was the only female they did that to who did so.

Jackasses.

I told myself I wasn't going to go for this one. I mean, the last Justice show is just damn impossible to top. It doesn't get better then the (almost) reunion of a living myth, a pick, and a hug from Wayne Kramer.

I just had to push my luck and attend the show at Slim's tonight in SF. Fortunately it was a good show. The hecklers were a pain and days that end without hugs from Wayne Kramer are definitely less desirable then the ones that do, but there was still Tom, there was Steve Earle, there was Boots and the whole Freedom Fighter Orchestra. Joe Satriani played the guitar with his teeth. Sammy Hagar sang some tunes with an outsized attitude. Wayne Kramer had this adorable huge goofy smile on his face the whole time. And it must have been Carl Restivo's birthday or something, because everyone, and I do mean everyone, was walking over to give him some love: Satriani even let him rock a solo...kind of, I mean, Joe Satriani being Joe Satriani, he was still playing like twelve notes to his one, but The Wizard's muscular black Gibson was definitely being shoved into the spotlight more often then usual. He even demonstrated Tom's own kill-switch trick.

Steve Earle was back with his acoustic guitar and harmonica, knocking out some folk music that was quiet enough that the Hecklers felt it was the perfect time to start abusing the other members of the audience. Through the night, various people would try to shut them down. No one would succeed. Not even the poor Slipknot guy who had the misfortune to be the subject of their misplaced adoration could get them to stop their drunken hollering for more then around two seconds.

The Hecklers loved Slipknot, and wouldn't let a single moment go by without saying so, which was sad becayse the Slipknot guy (Cory something) was a genuine guy. He was introduced as the first person ever to agree to one of Tom's Justice shows, he had an acoustic, a thick muscled neck, pale blonde hair, a strong, surprisingly sweet and emotive voice, as well as a sense of humor (played some country-western chords for fun). The Hecklers just wouldn't leave him alone: hollaring out "ACOUSTIC SLIPKNOT!!" and requests for what I guess are Slipknot songs. I felt sorry for him. I also felt sorry for me, since the Hecklers kept ramming into me, trying to debate politics during the acoustic songs, songs, and pressing against me during the rowdy parts. Also, they had my purse and stuff under the stage right in front of them. They didn't steal anything.

Steve Earle was talking about handing out barittos to homeless people as part of their volunteer day, and how he just happened across a guy who'd played in a band that he had recorded a song with back in 1986 (year I was born.) This guy still plays in that band. he came out with an emaciated face, a small steel recorder, and clothes worthy of the homeless to play the the song in question.

Earle and Morello covered "Ghost of Tom Joad" again. It's still great.

When it was finally time for "This Land Is Your Land" Tom and co. were joined onstage by...lots of people I didn't recognize who were playing what looked like Tom's gear: one of them had the Gibson he played two nights ago in Seattle (drop D tuning it turned out, which caused problems and required re-tuning mid-song), a thin, pretty singer* who dove out into the audience to deliver his verse, a guy on Morello's own "Arm the Homeless" (hope he knows that honor: playing THAT guitar live).... and another set of house lights that failed to come on on cue, but oh well.

*This guy turned out to be the frontman of OK GO. I didn't recognize him without the colors.

Wasn't as great as Seattle, but I have a hunch very little actually will be.

Wayne Kramer didn't come out and hug me. The Hecklers actually got the pick he lobbed in our direction, which I resent.

Someone out there, please get Tom a new pair of suspenders. He broke his in Seattle and I miss them.

Now the question is whether or not I'll actually get over my shyness and volunteer for something. I donno. I'll sleep on that one.

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.

Psychologist on Music Torture.

I'm fascinated and repulsed by the process of using Music to torture, in Guantanamo Bay and elsewhere. That something so benign can be used to inflict pain and suffering says something about the sheer creativity some people bring to the process of hurting other people.

Human Rights activist Andy Worthington has written up as good of an overview of the whole disgusting mess as I've read.

This kind of thing makes me really want to take action. But I have no idea what to do.

Trent Renzor joins the list of "Rockers with Principles" for his condemnation of the practice.

Another Night At Kimos

Sometimes things just go very well. Sometimes you just happen, luckily, on something exceptional.

It happened to me tonight. It was four bands for five bucks at Kimos again, and they were all great. All of them. Part of it might be that, by accident, I stumbled on Glam-Rock night, but the night was full of filthy guitars, moshing, wailing, and eyeshadow. If you need more for a perfect night at the local dive-bar venue, I don't know what it would be.

The first group was called "Inferno of Joy," a classic-rock four-peice. I love those. There's a monsterous teddy bear for a drummer, nice guy, talked to him before the show. There's Argentine bass player who stands wide and doesn't screw around. There's a guitar player who looks sort of like a soft-boiled Axl Rose who was doing incredible things on an intriguingly ancient Telecaster, which he, like a pro, swapped for a white Mexican after he broke a string. There's a lead singer in vinyl pants, a red work-shirt and long gloves, writhing and yelping like a younger Iggy Pop. This performance was just a whirlwind from beginning to end. Dirty, sexy, slinky, sounds like something you'd hear in a sleezy club in New York in the 70s, and that's a very, VERY good thing. This performance was just incredible.

So incredible, in fact, that the straight up hard rock of the next act, Lucabrazzi , couldn't really hope to follow. Don't get me wrong, they were pretty great: a power-trio in the style of Primus with the blue-dredlocked, sandy throated bass player as the frontman, and a lethe, dark guitarist who, despite more then a few technical difficulties, still jumped right off the stage to mosh with the front row...while still playing his guitar. They were pretty hard rock, pretty no frills, but sometimes, that's all you need.

The third band, Floating Corpses, was another three-peice and looked like it was going to be the most experimental band of the night. A red-headed girl in a black vinyl constructon was working a synthesizer, the dressed-to-match frontman (sequin miniskirt anyone?) had his guitar and a keyboard, the mics had the echo effect turned all the way up, and the drummer didn't seem to match because he looked totally normal. He was an absolute beast on the drum-kit. He brought a contingent of large, moshing Latino men with him, and the results were painful but preditctable. Thankfully, synth or no synth, the songs were meaty enough on their own that there was always plenty to dance to. They were very good. It sounds boring to say, but it was great to be there.

Last act of the night was Pink Swastika, fronted by possibly the shyest gay man ever to don a little-bo-peep polka-dotted dress and rock out on a lead-heavy blue Tele. I can't describe these guys without saying that they were, hands down, the most visual band of the night. The drummer stripped to the waist, smeared colorful body paint all over himself, and mimicked a broken robot over his kit. The bass player's hair was teased up in epic fashion, he sported a mini, some leggings, and a fuzzy red cardigan sweater. The keyboardist could double for Arther "Killer" Kane of New York Doll fame: huge blond hair, a tight sequened top, giant boots, and netted arm-warmers. He worked his keyboard with as much flare as I've ever seen anyone do it. And the singer, well, I've already mentioned him, so definitely this was a group that demanded attention, but how did they sound? Well, less heavy on the bottom then most of the other act (one sways side to side rather then bounce up and down) but still harsh, angry, scary, and.... yeah. Anyway, they were great too.

This was a great set-list. Thanks a lot Kimos. I owe you one.