BRMC @ Wiltern 5/8/07


Void of the Fettuccinis (Fratellis), the sound was only of Black Angels and Rebels… cannonade beats off a Comanche trail wind (spewed through a dim lit Texas night club) bled into the sanctioned fuss of the evening's premier feature, (and all without much time to swallow more than a couple gins…) but it was better that way kiddos; you see, you'd of wanted a clear head for the onset of this one. Seeing them live, well, it's like they're a no nonsense sorta band who doesn't seem to suffer from taking themselves too seriously, but all the while worrying that you might think they're doing just that. That's why they'll shove the heavy numbers through you then wrench and tear out what's left with some of their more delicate expressions; and they do it all out of some self imposed obligation… they're gonna give you a show one gaw-damn-way-o-another. And here's the secret, they need you more than you need them; 'cause the only way they'll ever believe they've just had a good one, seems at times to depend solely on the testament of that one ticket buyer who managed to push their way up front… I dig that about these guys… they have less to worry about than they think, and yet they'll probably stay up chain smoking for nights agonizing about that… twice over.

Let me sum it up like this, I've never seen a fan be given the bass guitar at the end of the gig. Now that's one helluva 'thank you for coming'…

Makes that story about the guitar pick you caught at Coachella seem a little less impressive doesn't it?

UNEDITED & UNREVISED

DAY ONE:

It's been a melancholy beginning, and I hope the experience isn't foreboding.  I sent my ride all the positive strength and energy I could muster, but as I abandoned her curbside I felt the eternal sadness that I was sure would cripple my quest for answers and my chance for solitude.  Ever the manic, I'm still hoping to ground myself and remain wary of any imposition or distraction.

 

And so arriving in New Mexico I had immediate news of what I'd left behind…more undeserved troubles for one of my closest friends; and my own wishes that this first step back to the homeland would also serve as a test of will prescribed by another I still half-heartedly imagined to be waiting to greet me upon arrival.  My role in both misfortunes were grounding me alright; I sat alone in the airport just thinking for a while before finally stumbling on.

 

Driving through the streets now, clearing my mind, breathing in deep…Blake's Lotaburger; street names like Coal, Lead, Iron; the quaintest of Adobe inspired cottages…I hastily synthesized a sort of reattachment.

 

The second I entered the Route 66 Hostel I knew I'd made the right decision, and after talking with a strange character in even a stranger aboriginal inspired hat, I'd been convinced to visit New Zealand via Australia.

 

"…what's more interesting is how logic can exist on two levels, one which is internally consistent and one which makes sense in the other world; occasionally there is a moment when the two intersect." – Local IQ: ABQ's Intelligent Alternative

 

I studied for a while but soon enough found my way onto the University of New Mexico campus.  There's a sculpture there, designed by an old family friend of mine.  We'd shared an orchard gate with Luis, this artist, in Hondo, and I'd been in his studio (an old schoolhouse) several times to see his work.  The sheer size of his pieces and personality had always intimidated me, and I'd been anxious around him.  It wasn't until last year when a tethering or scaffold of some kind broke and he was crushed to death by one of his sculptures, that I really appreciated him and vision he'd provided the world.

 

I was sneaking around the Student Union, profession/work mindshift switched on, ducking into areas to see their workspaces for clubs, organizations, general students, whatever.  The lights in the hallway were off, and there was a few people milling around one office.  I ducked past them as if I knew where I was heading.  Getting my fill of information, I attempted to slide back out undetected…I heard someone call my name.  My lower back tensed.  My god!!!  I hadn't even thought about contacting this old friend!  Completely forgot she lived here!  Well, if it was an experience of cultura that I'd wanted what better guide than this great soul!  My energy leapt and we quickly made plans to meet up the next night for dinner organic.

 

I hit a clever show at the Arts Center before rushing over to the Main Library for a spoken word/ poetry slam.  The Latino pride freckled with Native inspirations had me falling in love with this expression of progressive movement…and damn that little poetess.  She was everything to appreciate and applaud in the small sect of this greater movement.

 

As for dinner tonight – The Dog House.  The type of chow you can't resist due to some sort of strange American palate mutation.  But the damn chilidog was good!  Should I be surprised that even the spell check recognizes the word 'chilidog' as legitimate American English?

 

I'm feeling more like I need to move unto something new, different, fulfilling; something appropriate for who I am now and who I want to become…for me, and not to impress anyone else.  Hell, I'm just as broke as I've ever been; so what's that really mean?  That's freedom to do just about anything, to go just about any where...

 

In the hostel again, and listened to a traveler from Philly describe to me the embrace he felt New Mexico had wrapped him in and his struggle to find a place before his 10 days at the hostel were up.  I offered him words of support and would've conversed more, but I was off to a poetry reading/performance.

 

I was late, so I sorta felt like a welcomed imposter and was greeted as such; but I got a seat and soon enough my ears tingled with the sound of Coyote Scat…and music, and stanzas, and sweet souls in the swank night.  Later I was circling the ballroom floor watching the Jitterbugs bop, bounce and slide to the swinging jazz beats courtesy of the most mismatched and charmingly brilliant band of…well, in this moment, do-gooders.

 

On suggestion I headed over to Burt's Tiki someth'n or 'nother and watched a band that wasn't the greatest and the crowd was a knock off the eastsiders I was seeking refuge from; so I sat alone, but drank for two.  I ended up meeting a sweet soul who was flying solo as well, but I was mobile and went looking for some imaginary friends I was convinced were just waiting for me in the next bar over. 

 

After the next few hours, only one thing was certain, I really dislike the coppers on party patrol, but I severely distain coppers with big horses on party patrol.  That night I stumbled in to the hostel and only wrote one sentence:

 

Rehabilitation implies the segregation of artist and inspiration…I'm realizing I don't just miss her per say, but more so the companionship; a good girl to putz around with.

 

DAY TWO:

 

In the swap meet now…this suggestion was genius!  I can't stop thinking about what had originally brought me out here, specifically the lifestyle this environment encourages.  If only she'd believed in me a week longer, our lives would have changed instantaneously…

 

A Los Tigres del Norte album in my pocket, I stopped at a bench next to a 'Grillz' stand to sit and talk with my brother on the phone.  It's one of the only times I've completely relied on him to be my gatekeeper, though I'm sure he's been an advisor all along.  I've never missed him more than I do right now.

 

In Santa Fe I faltered, stopped in the library to check my email. By now she would've received my card sent unknowingly the very day our rendezvous was to be called off.  I was happy to receive contact from another though…I'd done a lot of things wrong with this one as well, and not bringing her on a trip like this counts as one of the bigger mistakes.

 

I ended up in a café overlooking the plaza and ordered a ridiculously priced margarita.  I'm sad… grapping with the notion of 'nothingness'.  I'm glad the patio has an outdoor heater.

 

I was anxious about going to dinner at her house, but everything went perfect.  There's no wonder there isn't anything his closest friends wouldn't do for him.  They reminded me of one of my other favorite couples, and I was instantly ready for them to adopt me.  I left excited to see them again the next day, and to mill about the UNM campus some more.

 

Tonight I got my own quaint little room equipped with a lounge chair and the smallest of libraries.  I purposely didn't set the alarm.

 

DAY THREE:

 

Notes on 'space':  If our eyes are deceiving us, and space is only a concoction of a narrowed perspective; then across these detailed mirages we're endlessly free to move about imagined borders…running blind to catch a glimpse.

 

I'm fighting to understand how to most appropriately extinguish drive and ambition.  It's all nothing and everything is perfect in that way.  Desire nothing and nothing is what you'll have…perfection.  We're all just passing along.  Enjoy the scenery, but don't rely upon it.

 

De-categorize…mind/body, physical/spiritual.  There's no offense if purity and impurity become one in the same.

 

MINDFUL, MINDFUL, TRUE SELF, TRUE SELF

 

I went to the Student Union and contemplated 'avoidance'.  I'd chanced fate before and met an old friend here, but being here now might be exposing myself to potential moments of suffering.

 

In the library now and feeling the taunt leash technology has over me, I degenerated and began to work on meaningless items left behind in Los Angeles.  After a while I stopped and made a call to get directions to the Native American Cultural Center.

 

Those were two of the hours I'd hoped to find here in New Mexico.  The stories of the Pueblos, and most specifically those of the Santa Clara, spoke to my current studies…to live without any segregation, between everything…"we emerged and live between the light and the dark".  I played drums alone in an empty hallway, closed my eyes breathed in the beat; and I was happy.

 

It had been years since I'd seen her brother and I was hoping this night's dinner plans would afford me the opportunity to reintroduce myself.  Looking back, I'm always embarrassed by my jovial self, things I'd done in the past that still affect other's notion of my character now in the present.  But, it's got to be a forward progression.  Stumble if you must, but stumble forward, can't make the same mistakes repeatedly or you're going nowhere.

 

The night was immaculate; the laughs, the continued hospitality, everything was…indescribable.  I was sad to leave, but sincerely promised a return (both to myself and out loud to my wonderful hosts).  It was then that I knew I'd found something special here in Northern New Mexico.  Something I'd never learned, nor cared to seek out until now.  I thought more about what that kid from Philly had said.  I thought about the comfortability of these streets, of the night's stars, of the patrons here I still hold dear…In my mind, I'd placed myself in New Mexico once again.

 

One last drink.  The advertisement read:  'Hodgepodge Entourage – Improv, musicians and projections'.  Ahh yes, these were the cats…I felt like introducing myself to every one of them.  I was enthralled, excited to be standing where I was.  A girlie chatted me up for a bit.  "Have you ever heard of the Buffalo Exchange?"  I let her tell me all about it, and she made me promise I'd stop in the following day to visit.  I just smiled and nodded.  I was leaving early the next morning, but didn't want to ruin our light exchange…

 

I guess it was a certain circumstance that led me out here; and I'm now convinced it was to find something I hadn't even realized I'd lost.  I don't know if it was a sense of 'home and emergence' I'd shed over these past several years, but I'm realizing that whatever it is, it's a fragile treasure and now one reencountered.  It's my family, my hosts, my land, my little room in an old hostel, a coffee stain on my notebook, messengers you meet on the way…it's all a transformation; my slow, painstakingly deliberate transformation…

 

 

 

"I don't know why you love that place so much, it's small, there's always a cover and forget about finding parking…" 

 

After 20 minutes of circling the block, I was convinced Fabi was right about that one.  In fact, this was the specific reason I'd chosen to come alone tonight, opting not to pressure an assuming friend into a night already starting in the red.  Well, after some fancy U-turns I was able to secure a space, and humped it double-time across the street.  Half a block away I could hear music.  The band was already playing (and I'll be damned if most of the clubs around town aren't starting everyone up on time nowadays).  Anyway, I guess it's time to mention that I was going to see Mozella.  Yeah, yeah, whatever, I was bored.  But, I was bored the other day at the airport too, where, waiting for a ride that was running late, I had the luxury to watch this mid-level band negotiate the move of their equipment from the baggage claim, to curbside and then into an old SUV.  Mozella seemed charming to me, and what the hell, her record release show was cheap.  I needed a night out. 

 

So I get to the doorman who assures me that they've literally just stepped on to the stage… okay, I'll fork over the $5 then.  I get inside and... yeah, the renovation of the place remains striking.  I love the expansion, the vibe, the lighting, and even the tunes they've got on.  I step into the next room where Mozella's got her full band with her.  Now mind you, when I first saw this girl, it was about 4 years ago when she was struggling along doing the whole solo bit and was the legitimately unsigned artist.  Now, she's somebody's baby.  I remember reading about how she credited getting signed to her unique style which I had thought looked a little more Hootenanny B-girl/skater than anything else.  But whatever, she's all pop princess now and she's got the songs to boot.  The crowd was strictly West Hollywood and the Valley... (I'm sure her album's going to be available at Target in the very nearest of future).  I finally had to rush to the bar for another drink when everyone begin clapping and singing along as she 'broke it down' about the love that you… coulda, shoulda.  It all just seemed a little too 'One Tree Hill'.  My masculinity was threatened.  And for all of you who know me, well I have some questionable music on tap, but this was a bit much.

 

Well, true to the bouncer's words (grrrr) I was there for two songs before they finished.  "Well" I thought "that's that." And so I headed for the door and… wait a minute!  Is that Tom Morello getting on stage?!?  Who the eff booked this night?!?

 

So yeah, I hung around to see Morello (Rage Against the Machine/Audioslave) go off on both the guitar and the government.  I mean, come one!  It's Morello!  Well, as it turns out, he's got a booming voice, commanding presence and can beat the hell outta a nylon string guitar.  My ears hurt and I liked it.  "If you take one step towards freedom, it'll take two steps towards you!!!" he professed.  Ahhhhh… my palate was cleaned.  I chewed on some ice in peace not wanting to move…  I didn't wanna go home, go to work, answer the phone, drive my car, pay my rent…

 

And that's when it hit me.  I'd just picked up a money order earlier that day to pay my rent.  And I'll be goddamned if I hadn't just left it sitting on the passenger's seat (at least that's all I could think I'd done with it).  How do you not keep track of important shit like that?!?  Anyway, if you know the back streets around Hotel Café, then you know why I had reason to worry.  So, I finished the last of my drink and headed for the door.  "Good luck, Tom" I thought as I picked up one of the cards from the back.  'Guerilla Food Not Bombs' it read.  I figured I could get behind that…

Look, I'm not an elitist.  Far from it, I'm from Las Cruces, New Mexico.

 

[Where as of late the FBI is in my hometown trying to solve the mystery of dual letters sent out to the mayor and to the Sun News newspaper editor demanding $25,000 or they're going to start shooting people at random around the city.]

 

And, I haven't been above hanging around a venue that shares a parking lot with convenience stores, a Sears, or a Chucky Cheese.  But still, there's something disconcerting about the neon glow of the gargantuan mecca of a 99 cent store sign setting the ambience for the exterior of the unwittingly beloved Safari Sam's.

 

The place comes upon you sooner than you'd expect if you're coming up the streets from Echo Park.  So last night served as maybe the third time I almost missed the turn (thank God for that daffy, that's right I used 'daffy', tiki sign with the place's name on it).  Anyway, I guess I came pretty quickly through the drive entrance, hell maybe I wasn't even paying much attention, but before I knew it, I was in the process of running over a bald chick and a male dancer from West Side Story 2006 - The Film.  Yeah, so I gave the obligatory nod, as they appropriated a sneer, and without missing a beat was off to try and squeeze my car into the euro size spaces they've got measured out there.  I should note that I drive a Honda. I should fit just about everywhere. What a cruel joke to paint parking spaces in such an unpretentious manner!

 

Anyway, it's bright outside the doors, so waiting to get in sorta put me in a foul mood, and by the time it was announced that I wasn't on the list (by the way, how's it possible that I'm in between two groups of about 7 each, and I'm the only bastard the doorman points to and yells "Hey, 'Ratchet' this guy's not on the list, make sure and charge him".  'Whatever' I thought,  'just get me the hell in'…

 

But then without warning:

 

DAMNIT!!!  THIS!  This is what's going on in here?!?!

 

Okay, let me tell you about this band.  No screw it. That would take to long.  Let's just focus on the lead singer.  First, I have to ask.  What's the deal with those low V-neck t-shirts for guys that American Apparel came out with this summer? 

 

[That's right, this review is going strait for the wardrobe critique.  As for the music.  Let's just say my ex-girlfriend had for years been trying to get me to buy some ear plugs.  And to think, it only took this band 3 minutes to convince me.  It was sorta the whole 'I'm losing my hearing for this?!?' kinda thing that won me over.] 

 

Alright, back to the lead singer and his lame shirt.  We'll, I guess I should mention the silver chains (dog tags included), and the stupid little black hat he couldn't decide whether to leave on or off (such a conundrum, should he go with off and have his hair fall all over his face, or should he have it on so he could brush back his bangs every minute or two?).  Okay, well the show gets going, and the crowd that's there is the kind where you have to look around 'cause you don't believe it, where you gotta study their faces, gotta try and make out if they actually dig what they're listening to.  Well, the pursed lips plastered on the faces of the girlies said it all.  And as the lead singer got sweatier, my patience began to wane.  Oh, he's taking off his black jacket.  Oh, I see he's cut the sleeves off his low cut V-neck shirt.  And, oh yes, he has a tattoo with text courtesy of the Far East that I pray means 'happiness', 'love', or 'knowledge', (cause that would just be so appropriate).  Anyway, I guess it was when his V-neck slipped down over his shoulder and he left it there in some weird attempt at androgyny, that I had no choice but make my way to the nearest exit.

 

(sigh)  Well, $15 and 35 minutes later I was back at my car, squeezing through the small crack in which I could get the driver's door opened.  Sitting inside, I took a minute to decide whether I would head to Cinespace or back towards my regular dives in E.P.  I finally decided on home, and not to a bar, to bed.  I wasn't drunk, but I knew I had to sleep this night off.

 

I should tell you, that a bit of dew, or moisture, or fog, or whatever, had settled on my back window over this period.  'Okay', I thought, 'as carefully as possible, I'm gonna just inch my way out of this parking space'.  And so it came, almost as if I'd expected it, a startled yell.

 

There, through my side door mirror, I watched as the bald girl (now with a Sparks in hand) kicked the back bumper of my car and yelled "Fucking Hipster!".

 

Champagne Socialism!!!  KCRW!!!  East Coast!!!

 

(all things Alexis felt the urge to scream towards Massive Attack and their very U2 Pop Tour circa 1997 stage setup)

 

So yeah, helluva show.  TV on the Radio brought it strong to the point where you kinda just stare, lose yourself in it, that kind of thing. Tunde Adebimpe was a pleasure to watch as he flailed his arms about embracing an intensity that poured from every pore of this guy's sweat drenched face.  And Kyp Malone was as you'd expect, un-flamboyant, but with a demanding presence about him.  Watching these cats, who, if we heard correctly even had LA native Double G playing with them that night, left you wanting, begging for more.  And it seemed like they were returning the energy too, like they intended to punch you right in the face with it.  Anyway, as they began what was to be, presumably, their last song, they abruptly stopped and left the stage, pretty much insinuating that they'd gotten the plug pulled.  It was a bit strange, severely anti-climactic, but endearing too, (I heard that it costs a helluva lot to go over on your set time at the Bowl, thousands per minute or something), but whatever it was, it felt good to know that TV was going to take it to the limit for you.  It's bands like this that'll end up generating a truly fanatical following.

 

But alas, the lights had to come on, and the fantastical moment of the set started to fade.  Damn.  When did so many drunk people show up?  I mean, yeah, it's the last night of the World Series from KCRW, and maybe I can cut most of the staggerers a break due to the fact that we're all here somewhat mourning the passing of yet another summer, but still, damn, there was a lot of drunk people.  Something about concrete stairs and the inability to walk correctly frightens me.  But don't get me wrong, it's not 'cause I'm a prude, and maybe I'm a bit selfish in nature, but I sure as hell don't want to have to some guy's head busting session infringing on our night's festivities…

 

Fuck. 

 

My hypocrisy knows no bounds…

 

Jeez... Well, now it's at this point that night, where I'm actually thinking these exact thoughts I'm relating here, that I begin to notice a hippie walking towards me with an ice chest.  Now I can't make out what he's saying at first, but he's definitely addressing all the people sitting in the aisle side seats.  His beard was pretty thick, maybe that's why I couldn't hear him clearly.  But I know he just didn't say what I think he said, did he?  I lean in closer, interested.  Well, the pungent hippiedom was in full affect, which for some reason always catches me off guard, but I guess my body language was enough for him to presume I was interested in his proposition.  Well, I didn't get one, and I cursed myself later for it, even now wondering if I might possibly have missed out.  I guess I'll never know, and maybe now a part of me will always look for this angelic soul roaming the shadowed aisles of the Hollywood Bowl, but on second thought, and really though, would it have been a good idea to buy a $1 Jello shot from a distributor of this sort?

 

 

 

Cheers, everyone!  I miss all of my friends unrepresented that night.

 

MR

 

 

 

Hmmm… so what to say about the Banksy show?  Well, let's see.  Why did some of the security guys have guns?  Why were approximately 1 ton of beers barred off from, but in plain view, of the general public? Why, by Sunday, had it turned into a 'hot spot' and more of a scene in which to be seen?  And why did, beginning with the Thursday reception, did it all carry a feeling of 'exclusivity' more so than 'active underground'? 

 

Anyone else wonder why the same Banksy posters that were being given out for free at Sunset Junction cost $5 a piece at the actual show?

 

First off, Banksy, we get it, I mean you said it right there in one of your pieces; and trust me, ripping off rich celebrities from A to D is funny, right in the same vein as most of  your work, so cheers to that, man.  But here's what I'm wondering, what are you going to do with the reportedly hundreds of thousands of dollars?  I mean, I'd like to think you'd use it to mass produce picket signage for protests, or to generate dissent t-shirts to be dropped from the sky over the next big political rally, or to distribute trench coats to the homeless, or maybe to buy out some commercial airtime, how about a Superbowl blimp, hell man, even a fucking food bank, anything; just, something.  I mean, if your only intent is to be comical with political content, then great, stick to that.  Don't hand out flyers reminding us how truly bad things are in the world and how screwed up the art culture ideology is all the while furthering your name as a pop cult brand to be peddled from a well cast warehouse front.  Again, don't get us wrong.  We get it.  I'm just saying don't allow critics to so easily call you a hypocrite.  Perhaps just better tailoring of the execution of what the LA WEEKLY hailed as 'the Banksy has arrived' show would've worked.  Yeah, and by the way, what's this 'arrived' thing, man, 'arrived' where?  We loved you where you were.  On the streets, on the walls, fuck man, on a damn cow in the middle of a muthafuck'n field, dude!

 

(sigh) Screw it. I guess some of the old crew are just a little conflicted with you selling yourself to Brangelina's dining room wall…  Oh yeah, and tell Adrian Brody it was cool of him to come out to the Cholo Art Show the other day in Culver City.

 

P.S.  I really liked the multimedia framed pieces.  Oh, and child amongst the ruins surrounded by the news crew, and oh, and the ball in the television set, and I really liked the swat vehicle, and those sketches were cool, and the videos were fun, and, and, and…

Now, had I actually known that we were going to something called 'Drunk Thursdays' I might have protested a bit.  I mean really, who has this as their call out: "Who I'd like to meet:
Freaks, geeks, dorks, nerds, people with tricked out myspace pages, people who own trucker hats, and Importantly...Social people who like drinking"?

 

Really?!?  I mean, really?!? That's all you could come up with?  Wow.  But yeah, okay, give them the benefit of doubt since I did get this off their MySpace account, and we can all agree there's a high margin of error there.  Alright, now it's best I qualify myself, maybe set the record strait.  I had a really really good time last night.  I guess it was fulfillment of our reason for being there in the first place, to listen to a friend DJ as part of the VOX POP night. 

 

Anyway, here's how it played out.  We got off to a seemingly late start and for whatever reason we still didn't rush it, nor get frustrated by our lack of direction at some moments (yes, it's true; it does take a helluva lot to get us Echo Parquenos out of the easy peazy and we agitate easily when it comes to driving outside our 3 mile radius).  Anyway, we finally got there, and I gotta say, I like the place.  It's cute, with its little bats-in-the-red-lights-above-you scheme, and a smoking patio, (that doesn't even compare to the other smoking patio that for whatever reason you can't drink in) and the cliental that, well, seems to be having a very simply mellow good time.  I mean, we had a lot of kids that looked like they were heading off to a Cramps show, but then we also had the hipsters, even an older crowd, and those that were just keen on being in a bar on Thursday night. 

 

But here's what makes it, the music moves.  It's the kind of music that when you hear it, you think to yourself 'yeah, I could probably listen to this more regularly' hell, there's even a few tracks where you're moved to ask who the artist is.  "What's that, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah?!?"  It doesn't even matter that now you're being told it's really their only good song.  Well whatever, the night progresses, you take a piss in a urinal that someone with a great sense of humor has placed directly in front of the sink, and you've decided 'why not, let's go with another gin and tonic'.

 

Well, all of that aside, and the reason I would recommend this night, is the unpretentious crew that has been given the reins (and a tab) for the night.  It's the hometown-boys-done-good type vibe when you hang with these people.  And though great success hasn't fully opened up to them, their spirit assures you that it's only a matter of time.  Just a few minutes with them, and you have no choice but to be sold.  Damn, Ashbury sounds good when you play it loud, and alright, no wonder Tenderbox is getting attention, I liked that last track.  And see, that's just it, these cats here, man, they're just here to have a good time and shoot the shit with friends old and new.  I mean you could talk psychosomatics with these folk and feel like it's the best barspeak you've had in a year and a half. 

 

So anyway, by this time the small dance area is pretty much full, and the changing of the guard on the sound system is flawless.  You decide you've past the point where you were just going to drop in for two drinks, so you order another to celebrate the fact that you'll now probably stay until the places closes.  You look to your right, a pretty girl smiles.  You look to your left and see a mismatched couple unapologetically dancing in a most terrible fashion.  And finally you look at your drink and decide yeah, from this angle, it does look a lot more full then it does empty.

 

Ppffftttt!!!  Okay, that was a bit much there at the end so I'm going to leave this with a couple of useful reminders.  If you're a guy out on the prowl looking to score, then this probably isn't your stop.  Women here seem to be an endangered species (ladies consider this a call to arms!).  Also, if you're going to get a drink at last call then you'd better be ready to down it fast.  The bartenders here seem to be a pretty good breed, so leave before they throw you out so you can keep that positive impression.  Oh and last but not least, there's this part of the bar armrest that's loose near the DJ, so I'd avoid leaning there as you might inadvertently cause the music to skip.  It ain't right, busting up that brotha's grindgroove out on the dance floor, man!

 

The thing I love about going to the Hollywood Bowl is that no matter how many times you mentioned that we should get going, there's this look of utter surprise and nervous anxiety that seeps across the face of that one friend that kept assuring everyone that we'd be there in plenty of time (after they've realized that the second act has already been playing… for a while now).  I have to ask myself here, what's to make this time any different than the last?  I mean I KNOW this.  That's right folks.  Concerts at the Bowl start on time.  How many times have we all gone and still don't adhere?  (Maybe subconsciously that's why I let our own dissident carry the heaviest bag when we walked there, because I knew this would happen).  But that's just it, you almost become immune to it; being late to shows; that is, well, after the ump-teenth time (apologies to Arcade Fire).  Obviously better sets have been missed before so it wasn't in an ill mood that I sat down excited to hear the last half of Ryan Adams.

 

First thing I thought was "wait a minute, has he always looked so damn neo-hipster, I mean where'd this new haircut come from?"  Now don't get me wrong, if I had long strait greasy hip hair, I'd probably let it flop across my forehead too.  Plus, if I was rail thin, I'd probably feel comfortable contorting my body in every rocker way (well, every way possible while playing southern country influenced rock and ballads).  But yeah, it was good, if you like Adams.  There's not much you can do up there with a small group playing mellowish music.  But he sounded as good as the records.

 

As we went into break I finally started to pay attention to the group sitting behind us.  A few beers in them, they lashed out against Adam's music, finally concluding that the only plausible reason he'd be on the bill was to bring the young crowd (damn I thought, I really liked his country record with the Cardinals, guess I was out voted here with these guys).  Anyway, it deserves to be described, this group behind us.  Did I mention not one of them was under 60 yrs?  Yeah, and the 'leader' looked just like Willie Nelson.  How much like Nelson you might ask.  Well, enough that people kept hounding him to take pictures with them all through that break and after the show.  I guess he was pretty dead on with the beard and the hair.  Still, it's his jean jacket with a mural of desert wolves howling in the full moon I'll remember most about him, a design I've heard referred to as the staple dyke accessory.

 

Anyway, Willie's set was great; upbeat with comedy and ballads alike mixed in.  I had a great time singing along with the rest of the bowl as Willie called out "Whiskey for my men!" and we'd shout back "and beer for my horses!" It was clear he had everyone there swinging to the music, as we declared in unison that mommas shouldn't let their babies grow up to be cowboys, or, as Willie ended the song "don't let your cowboys grow up to be babies."  Anyway there was a lot of tender moments in the set where you'd be lucky if you were there cuddled up with your lover, and all in all it was over much too soon.  I'm still waiting for that encore!

 

Well, as it goes with the Bowl shows, when the lights come on, there are the stragglers that will hold on drinking and smoking like it's their personal outdoor patio.  I know this, because, well, these are my brethren.  So, as the crowd cleared I look over to the couple next to us across the isle, and yeah, well there was Ron Jeremy.  Now, when I told someone about this later they replied that I must have been hooked up to be sitting in the same general area as Jeremy.  I had to correct them, this was untrue. Then I got to thinking, perhaps it was Ron's own non-hooked up-ed-ness that made meeting him in the cheap seats so charming…

 

So I guess it was a typical night at the bowl, and I couldn't help but smile as I stopped but for a brief moment to listen to that guy that sings with the panda bear puppet, enjoying the last sip of Charles Shaw.