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