Kim Gordon at the 9:30 Club, 3/15/2022

Sleater-Kinney played The Anthem in Washington D.C. two days after my 42nd birthday, with two months left in 2019. Once live concert fiends, Trick and I were reduced (largely by choice) to a couple shows a year, maybe, for most of the past decade. 2020 arrived, and reduction became the order of the day. While no one likes being told what to do, sometimes it's just best. Developing agoraphobia isn't best, nor is gaining weight, but staying home and upright and alive is. 

The concert experience seemed like a relic of a bygone era. The driving, the waiting, the babbling, the drinking, the sweating, the aching, the clapping, the yelling, the connection...something we used to do, like eating in a restaurant or attending a baseball game. Money and energy were treasures to be saved up for nights in crimson fleece. 

The night of 3/15/2022 passed the feel test. 

Because Kim G. is the hero. 

Because you can't spell "risking Covid" without "Kim G." (Just erase half of the m.)

***

My body showed no signs of future trouble as I slipped into faux leather leggings and fitted Snoopy tee, de-wrinkled for the occasion. Over the previous ten hours, I'd treated it well enough--coffee, water, homemade breakfast muffin. There was an inadvertent inhalation of perfume, but it's expected I'll always allow a baserunner or two. 

Twenty years after our first trip to the 9:30 Club, the changes along the route are gradual and abrupt in unequal measure. Boarded-up storefronts and litter-strewn sidewalks sit across from signs announcing the imminent construction of luxury condos. A ratty convenience store at one end of this block, a pristine Safeway at one end of that block. Gentrification hovers 'round Georgia Avenue like a heaving storm cloud taking up two-thirds of the sky. At least Wonder Chicken is still at the intersection of Georgia and Rittenhouse. Will I ever sample its wares? Likely not. Better to appreciate from afar, like a would-be lover betrothed to another. 

Pedestrian traffic at the six o'clock hour is steady and smart; vehicular traffic, not so much. 

The area around the 9:30 Club has undergone quite a bit of change in those twenty years, as well. The parking lot has moved a few blocks north, across from Banneker Recreation Center. There are folks in the bleachers, folks running the track, and one guy walking the track at a pace slower than that maintained by Trick and I as we head south to the club, past a yoga studio, past parking garages, past Howard Plaza Towers, on and on until the dingy comforts of cracked sidewalk and amateur graffiti signal our destination. 

We entered the venue mere minutes after doors opened at seven. The merch table offered a few shirts and vinyl of No Home Record, the masterpiece Kim Gordon was finally touring behind, three years after its release. A barrier separating spectator from stage beckoned moreso, especially the empty space just to right of center. The mask mandate in the District was lifted at the beginning of March, but all of the staff and at least half of the crowd wore some form of face covering. (Trick and I were the only ones rocking N95s that I saw.) 

I took my first chocolate-y, caramel-y, cereal-y sip of Murphy's Irish Stout at 7:15 and took my final sip at 10:30, right after the lights went up for good. Now tell me who the Sonic Nurse is?

We scanned the older-skewing crowd behind us and amused ourselves guessing a person's favorite Sonic Youth album based on the band shirt they wore. White VU and Nico tee? EVOL. Black VU and Nico tee? Sister. Pixies shirt, clearly Dirty. Korn? Rather Ripped.

Bill Nace took the stage at 8:30, seated six feet from a drum set placed to the far left of the stage (first time I've ever seen such). If you've ever wondered about the testimony of the Gods and Goddesses of Atari if ever called upon in the purely hypothetical case of Todd Rogers vs. The Gaming Universe...if you've even half-considered the audible reckoning of C-tier deities under oath...if you've ever craved the sensation of thunderous reprimand for shunning simple mathematics, overlooking obvious clues, and besmirching the good name of Wabbit, well, the Gods and Goddesses of Atari testified on Tuesday night. Through Bill Nace, who may or may not have ever played a video game, the Gods and Goddesses of Atari unleashed forty years of well-oiled wrath. Onlookers drooped and drooled, choked and staggered--and justice was done.

Kim and her three partners in crime took the stage--friendly, wary--at 9:30. A music stand blocked our view of the grand dame somewhat, meaning Trick would capture only clips and pics on his phone, rather than video of a full song. The set up was otherwise fantastic, with plenty of space between band members. Kim moved frequently and wisely. A month shy of 69, stunning in dress shirt, shorts and sensible shoes, her power stemmed from her essential vulnerability. She's fragile and dangerous in the manner of glass, although it's easy for the audience to just marvel at the illusion of tesserae. 

 Ten songs (the entirety of No Home Record, and the single "Grass Jeans") doesn't sound like much for a concert, but in this case it constituted the ideal set. Selecting highlights is like choosing a favorite child, or at least it would be if I had, or even liked, children. The run of "Air BNB," "Paprika Pony," and "Murdered Out" was pretty wham-bam-goddamn, and I'll now always associate the first of that three with Alex Ovechkin scoring his historic 767th career goal. The encore of "Hungry Baby" and "Grass Jeans" fed and clothed us in joyful noise. If insight seems anathema to the Kim Gordon creative mission (I read Girl In A Band with trembling hands, sure that at any second the book would vanish from my grasp before I finished the final page), onslaught fills the gap nicely. 

"That was Kim Gordon! That was Kim fucking Gordon!"

The young woman behind us spoke for me. She let out my every suppressed scream, my every quelled imprecation. The concert experience still means something to me. 

It always will.

Flock Rock: Sleater-Kinney at the 9:30 Club, 2/24 and 2/25

Patrick tends to be on top of things, while I tend to be on the bottom of them.  Thus, the responsibility of procuring tickets to Sleater-Kinney's gig at DC's venerable 9:30 Club fell into his lap.  And when those tix sold out in one hour, more or less, necessitating the addition of a second show the following night, he purchased those as well.

Patrick does not always stay on top of things.  Occasionally he deems it restful to descend from the peak and snuggle with the rest of us in the mediocre middle.  But soon enough, the clarion call will tickle his cochlea and once more he ascends, more heaving upward than any fanciful climb with ropes and carabiners.  "I'm coming to pick up you a week early," he informed me, and while I would love to tell you (and myself) that the reason for his haste was an aching desire to be in close proximity to my warm glowing warming glow, the rush was inspired by nature conspiring to dump on us.  The meteorological whiz-kids on local TV actually underestimated the impact on the DC Metro Area; some places ended up covered in a full foot of snow.  Hanging with Patrick and his pops in Montgomery County, I watched as "only" eight inches piled up outside the gorgeous expanse they call a mere "yard," and wondered at my use of quotation marks.  My mind marveled at the sights, but my body shivered at the sensations. Temperature extremes are a chore for most anyone to endure, but thanks to a chronic circulation issue, the record lows were utter agony for me.  Even as I increased the layers and bundled the blankets tighter, even as the logs burned in the fireplace under the auspices of a retired firefighter and various vents blew out hot air...I still felt like polar bear balls.

THE BEFORE

By the 24th--the night of the first Sleater-Kinney gig--temperatures were still low enough that Siri made that annoying "BRR!" when asked for the exact number but the roads were clear of ice and the skies held not a single threat.  Such situations are when my English pals would say, "Result!"

By the 25th--the night of the second Sleater-Kinney gig--temperatures were still low enough that Siri made that annoying "BRR!" when asked for the exact number but the utterance was curtailed, an indication that one need not wear three layers of clothing just to go outside and grab the mail. 

Nearly two years had passed since our last jaunt to the 9:30 Club:  May 13, 2012, to be precise, when we stayed just long enough to watch Lee Ranaldo and band open up for M Ward.  Other than trips to see live shows, U and V aren't streets we have reason to visit regularly.  Our loss, genuinely.  Even as much has changed, much has obstinately refused to change, and it is in this way the capital of America most acutely serves as a microcosm for the nation at large. 

Patrick travels to the 9:30 Club via Georgia Avenue, a main arterial road that takes us from small suburban life in Olney to an especially dense area of the much-livelier Silver Spring, on to one of the most scattered sections of DC and then U Street, an exemplar of gentrification.  In many ways, the rougher area of DC we pass through appeals most to me.  One gleaming building with obscenely wide windows here, seven dilapidated storefronts there.  Somehow the Ethiopian-Tex Mex cafe on the corner being watched over by the HIV-positive man who hasn't changed clothes in two weeks (but will, as soon as he gets the nickel) doesn't offend any of my sensibilities, but that new Wal-Mart?  Gross.

Ah well.  I was still able to peer out the window and count four munch-houses with signs boasting of their proficiency in at least four distinct types of food.

One gigantic change that we had not been privy to struck us right as Patrick turned onto V Street.  The Atlantic Plumbing Building that had stood at 8th and V for years had been razed and construction begun on a new apartment complex, a monolith next to the humble club.  Apparently the condos will welcome their first residents this spring.  All I'll say in this space is that the look is very modern.  And that when you are basically homeless--as I am--revulsion is an inescapable reaction.

One reason these shows mattered, then:  to staunch, however relatively briefly, the flow of toxins between my brain and the rest of my body.

Another change:  the 9:30 Club has started letting early arrivals in via their Back Bar.  Instead of hours spent lined up against the unforgiving brick, thirty lucky folks get to get their hands stamped and wait in the warmth, and maybe even create their own at the bar.  Patrick and I are almost always up for the jolly juice--he's of Irish ancestry, and my parents were both born and raised in Kentucky, meaning my blood type is Bourbon--but the nerves were too much.  Soon down, soon up, or at least that was the worst-case scenario.  Besides, The Simpsons Movie was playing on the mounted TV!  Alaska!

The second night was different.  Our bodies had been shaken up in the most pleasant ways by the previous night, and a much-savored drink (cider for Patrick, beer for me) would not only be harmless, but actually rather beneficial.  Also, the TV was off. 

THE SHOWS

You gotta love how I bold these headers, you can just jump right to the part you're most likely to care about!

From the Back Bar, it was two short flights of stairs (and the appropriately stickered/markered walls) then a quick left, and there we were.  The entrance to floor of the greatest place to see a rock show, full stop.  Both nights, we ended up at the far left end of the long metal railing--"side Carrie," to those who know. 

Sober as a bird draped in black robes for the first show, I couldn't beat back that roiling admixture of excitement and dread in my gut.  Patrick picked up on my vibe--sharing it to the degree that he did--and remarked that while the 75-minute wait for opener Lizzo seemed long, it would be nothing compared to the two-and-a-half hours that we were forced to stand around waiting for Devo to take the stage back in 2005.  Yep.  Doors opened up at 7.  No acts beforehand.  Devo onstage at 9:30.  And we did that two straight nights. 

But, we caught part of Bob Casale's Hazmat suit later in their suit, so it evened out.

Goddamn did Sleater-Kinney pick the perfect opener.  When I think "Minneapolis hip-hop," I think Atmosphere, AKA Slug on the mic/Ant on the beats, all heartfelt and introspective, and while Lizzo can be accurately described with those two adjectives, she is so much more.  Wild-haired and outsized, like to the point where I'm sure she not only does not possess an "indoor voice" but if anyone even dared suggest you adopt one she'd shove a package of Pepperidge Farm Milanos up their ass, she took the stage alongside DJ Sophia Eris and drummer Ryan McMahon, peppering her sound with impure funk and pure soul.  Big beats, bigger rhymes. 

Her set remained fairly unchanged one night to the next, causing her on the second night to beseech us repeat customers to resist spoiling her act:  "I'm like M. Night Shymalan in this bitch!"  But how could I complain about anyone who warms up by blaring Gossip, Runaways, and Le Tigre?  (And oh yeah, "Rebel Girl.")  Sure, sure, I could bitch about being front row and still not getting any cookies thrown my way during "Batches and Cookies" (which Patrick legendarily misheard as "Bitches and Cookies") but you know what?  That does not matter.  What does matter, as the proudly "humanist" Lizzo reminded us midway through her incendiary and indelible set, are "all lives" in general and "black lives" specifically.  Her crowd control is impeccable; when she requested all cell phones out and lit up for her finale, she didn't have to ask twice.  She did...but she really didn't have to.

Lizzo proved the perfect act to lead into Sleater-Kinney.  She loosened our limbs, stretched our mouths, and...well, our minds were already opened coming in, we're all Sleater-Kinney fans after all.  What we needed was to have our anxieties allayed, our bodies protected against any sudden physiological revolt...and that's what happened.  (Save for those souls sensitive to the effects of strobe lighting.  Yikes.)

National Public Radio were on hand to livestream the first show, and I'd be hard-pressed to claim they documented either the greater or the lesser of the two performances.  Sleater-Kinney blessed the DC faithful with 23-song setlists for each night, which just so happens to be the same number of counties in the state of Maryland, soo...take that, Virginia!  DC is so clearly ours!

2/24                                                                                  2/25

Price Tag                                                                          Price Tag

Start Together                                                                  Get Up

Fangless                                                                           The End of You

Oh!                                                                                   Turn It On

Surface Envy                                                                   No Anthems

Get Up                                                                             Surface Envy

Ironclad                                                                            Little Babies

No Anthems                                                                     No Cities To Love

Youth Decay                                                                    Hey Darling

What's Mine Is Yours                                                      Light Rail Coyote

A New Wave                                                                   Bury Our Friends

No Cities To Love                                                           One Beat

One Beat                                                                          A New Wave

Words and Guitar                                                            Youth Decay

Bury Our Friends                                                            Words and Guitar

Sympathy                                                                        Good Things

Entertain                                                                          Jumpers

Jumpers                                                                           Dig Me Out

ENCORE                                                                        ENCORE

Gimme Love                                                                   Gimme Love

Little Babies                                                                    Start Together

Turn It On                                                                       Let's Call It Love

Modern Girl                                                                    Modern Girl

Dig Me Out                                                                     One More Hour

Well well well...fuck me till the wheels fall off, why don't'cha.

Patrick and I were thoroughly spoiled re: setlists for this tour, 'cause that's how we are.  If the information is out there, we will find it, see?  We were aware that they were playing pretty much all of the new album, save for the dirge-y "Fade," and we were abreast of all the old faves they were dipping in and out of the sets, like so many Double Stuff'd Oreos into so many cups of whole milk. 

I'll be doing a full review of No Cities To Love later on in the week, but I won't hesitate to tell you all right here right now that 2015 Sleater-Kinney is every pound as vital, every inch as crucial, as the initial Grrrl-y incarnation of some 20 years ago.  The addition of Brit Katie Harkin on guitar/keybs/bonus percussion is a bonus to their overall sound, rather than a detriment.  (Take that, Tumblr-ing worrywarts.  She and Carrie were even synchronized on "Surface Envy."  It was incidental and adorable!)  Of the new tracks, my favorite (both on record and onstage) is the third-degree burner "Surface Envy."  I knew upon my very first listen that it would blow off and then hastily rebuild/replace the roof in a live setting, and I was far from mistaken.  A gorgeously distorted, relentless call-to-extremities that comes as close to a mega-colossal explosion as anyone reading this will experience in their lifetime.  "Price Tag" is another modern classic, a stomper for the cautious consumer that rings up and down every aisle, at every register.  S-K graduated from the Sonic Youth school of live performance, majoring in the refusal to gaze slavishly upon their past. 

In the "revelatory" category, I have to confess that "No Anthems" resonated far more with me in concert than on record.  Patrick has been a champion of the tune since the album's release, and finally, I got the hype.  Likewise, he was converted to the gospel of "Gimme Love."  Was it Corin Tucker stepping to the middle of the stage, mic in hand, free of her guitar, hands reaching out to feel the heat emanating from the ton o' luv accumulated in the audience?  Maybe it was that blue jean baby instrumental stretch, which allowed her to hit the floor quite literally, laying it all out and swinging it all around.  Either road you choose to travel by, they'll both make a hell of a difference.

I'm a member of the freak show known as "'All Hands on the Bad One' is my favorite Sleater-Kinney album, you guys!" (less members than "'Wowee Zowee' is the best Pavement album, dude!,"  more members than "'A Thousand Leaves' was the apex of Sonic Youth's career, y'all!") so to get "Youth Decay" just the once was a blessing so joyous that I damn near punched Patrick in the throat when they tore into it on the first night.  "Ironclad" was much less of a surprise, but no less of a thrill.  The band have been playing it virtually every stop on the tour, but it means more in DC than any other place on the globe.  (Hero warships...they preserve it, we deserve it.)  

Patrick, notorious lover of The Hot Rock, got his off early (and late) with "Start Together."  Who wouldn't want to touch sentient lava?  Other wool-shearing blasts from the past included the stalwart "Words and Guitar," "Dig Me Out," and "Little Babies."  Make no mistake--nothing got to us as instantly, twisted in and around our souls quite as intensely, as "Good Things" on the second night, and I doubt most sincerely that we were the only ones in the packed club that felt that way.  During S-K's 2006 "farewell" tour, they were fond of ending sets with the heart-punch of "One More Hour," bringing already distraught fans to actual tears.  They closed out their delayed DC date of '06 with "Dig Me Out," sparing some upset...but not from me.  See, I was fond of telling friends that I wouldn't cry if they'd played "One More Hour," but "Good Things," yeah, that would get to me.  Luckily for me and the people standing near me, I got to dance instead of blubber.

Not that I blubbered, exactly, but I'm grateful no one could see my eyes fill with tears, or my throat spasm from restrained emotion.  Thankfully, the band knew just how to cheer me up--the suicide song!  Yay!  Setlist construction at its most magnificent.

"Let's Call It Love" was a true shocker, the first time they've played it this tour.  I maintain that Corin is saying "Snoopy, the dog is sick" on the chorus until someone explicitly asks her and she states otherwise. 

THE CROWDS

Wait...header related to the show within the show header?  Put the wheels back on and fuck me again.

The first show was absolute fire, with everybody bringing along their sticks and stones.  Writers paid to express their half-formed, heavily-edited thoughts to the world may tell you otherwise.  They may tell you likewise.  All I can tell you is what I saw, what I heard, and most crucially, what I felt.  Bodies in emotion, true native activism.  A tidy mix of young, old, and the in-betweeners like myself.  Yes, men attend Sleater-Kinney concerts, and they're some fucking great dancers too.  I'm pretty sure people who have no need for corrective eye wear also go see S-K live, but that's just an assumption. 

There were no assholes, thankfully...we dodged a bullet with the small group of people who fought their way to the middle of the crowd during "Youth Decay" on the second night.  I thought I spied a couple ladies shooting me stink-eye for daring to hog the front when I'm damn near five-ten but hey, as I explained to Patrick on the first night--

"It does no good to get mad at me.  I'm five nine and a half 'cause my mom's five eight and a half, and my dad was six foot three.  It's all genetics.  You're five foot two trying to see the stage at a show, get here earlier or get a step ladder.  Ya know?  Not my fault her mom didn't screw a taller guy."

In addition to my height, I also have a head like a goddamn melon about to burst.  I imagine seeing me bop and hop was quite the extra treat.  On springs in the wintertime.

THE CLOTHES

The first night Carrie stole the show with Angus Young's school boy uni, minus the suit.  The second show, though, Corin was stupendously sexy in her white top with red shoulders and black pencil skirt. 

THE AFTER

Arriving home after the Tuesday concert, Patrick and I just concentrated on unconsciousness and recovery.  Going from no shows in almost two years to motherfucking Sleater-Kinney is akin to letting your precious little chihuahua out to do their sinful business, calling them back, and looking over to see a sleek, fierce tiger slowly striding to the door.  Oh, did I mention neither of us had any solids in our systems?  Yeah, that too.

Wednesday night, we treated the hell out of ourselves with hop skip and jump for the love of (veggie) chili cheese fries at the legendary Ben's Chili Bowl.  So hot, cheesy, and bean-y.  Was it real cheese?  It legitimately does not matter.  If Anthony Bourdain doesn't ask such questions, why should we? 

Patti Smith in DC, 12/28/07

On the way down to see Shonen Knife in DC, my stomach suffered an unfortunate turn of contents while Patti Smith's Easter blared from the car stereo. With the aftertaste still fresh in my mind a month later, I shared with Patrick my hunch that our ride down to see Patti Smith in DC should not be accompanied by a Shonen Knife record, lest peristalsis occur yet again. Perpetual bud nippers, we opted for The Hot Rock by Sleater Kinney.

It was a pissy rainy Friday when 'Trick's sleek black Honda left the driveway around 7:30 for the familiar trek to the 9:30 Club. Anyone who's read a few of my DC concert reviews knows that the path to any venue in our nation's capital as laid by the J & P Show runs down Georgia Avenue, and that the closer we get to our destination, the more urban the surrounding area becomes.

You might think that after innumerable times passing by illuminated, haphazardly decorated chunks of buildings, my passenger seat wistfulness would have ebbed into nothingness. Yet every time my eyes catch hold of a multi-tasking eatery, I smile in wonder. You know 'em--those overreaching establishments that offer up any combination of the following foods while almost never boasting any as a specialty: "seafood, soul food, Chinese, chicken, pizza, subs, burgers, wings". I adore these joints for their desire to be so much to many, sacrificing quality for quantity because they can.

Not like I'd ever eat at any of those places. Or would I?

And it was just as we passed the illustrious Wonder Chicken that I was struck. What if...I gathered a group of friends for a weekend in DC spent bouncing place to place, each of us tackling different food types and giving grades? (And no one would try the same food twice, i.e., if you had Chinese grub in one place, you couldn't have it anywhere else.) The end results would make a fun survey for the blog and gnarly greasy chow for the clog.

Yeah, on my way to see the grand poetess of punk and that is what's gripping my imagination.

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The steady rain unearthed the 9:30 Club's scarcely-seen compassionate side. Right as Patrick and I exited the parking lot at the rear of the venue, we saw folks being granted early access via the "Back Bar" at the side of the club. So there we stood, in our non-B boy stance, umbrella-less, waiting. My brand new black jacket with the thick buttons was heavy enough to provide significant warmth but it increasingly made me feel like a boll weevil as I gazed around at all these petite broads in my mist. Eventually, the bar filled, and us sundry unluckies were ordered back to the club facade. The precipitation continued, and I found myself having to frequently remove my glasses and wipe them down.

"They should make windshield wipers for glasses."

"They did...do," Patrick said. "I've seen them."

"Yeah, but those are novelty right? I mean like wipers for prescription glasses."

"Ah, yes. Not yet."

The oldest crowd we have ever been a part of, that much was certain even before they let us in. There was a strong presence of people I don't hesitate to call "hippies", but not in the way a surface-satiated mass would identify the members of said group. These were "mental hippies".

One was in front of us yakking with some friends, and wouldn't hush whether you called his name or not. He saw Patti 30 years ago in Central Park! She was way drunk and wayer determined to methodically strum her guitar until every string snapped clean off. She succeeded!

His best story had to do with the 9:30, though. I missed how long ago it was, and the acts performing that night, but here's the gist.

He and some good friends were in the crowd, waiting around for the headlining act to take stage. Things were wine and candy till one of the guys had to head off to the toilet. He asked a pal to hold his beer. Fine; except this woman clutching the non-bubbly had forgotten her ID and thus did not have a hand stamp permitting her to enjoy alcohol in any way. She was swamped down upon by eerily vigilant security, who informed her that she had violated club policy and would have to vacate the briar patch posthaste. Her friends protested, and the subsequent stink was so foul that club management was summoned. Thankfully, a compromise was reached.

Just when we thought the story had served its purpose of revealing the inflexibility of the average rock club, dude delivered the punchline. The woman of the story, the one at threat of being kicked out because she dared hold a beer in a hand that lacked a stamp? She was 60 years old.

-----------------------------------------------------------

Front row was out of the question. I staked out a spot on the floor while Patrick sought relief. I stood off to the left, clocking no more than 30-40 peeps gathered 'round the front. No one very tall, either. I exhaled and reminded myself of Concert Rule 283. What's that?

283: If you decide to claim a spot on the floor--the most crammed and thus amorphous area of a typical club gig--do not definitively place yourself anywhere until you have subjected it to the following test: from wherever you are, imagine yourself six feet in front of, behind, and on either side of. Would any of these spots still be adequate by your standards? Would sight lines suffer? Would acoustics suffer? This is not a "what-if" scenario, friends; this is an inevitability. As people pour in and mull around, as they brusquely maneuver through the breathing forest before them, you will be relocated. Resolving to stand firm is unnecessary and fruitless, albeit still rather cute.

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Patti Smith--aided and abetted by a whip lash band consisting of Lenny Kaye, Jay Dee Daugherty, Tony Shanahan and son Jackson--put on a show approaching 2 hours and 20 minutes in length, the longest I have ever seen for one performer.

The setlist was a mix of originals and covers (clearly Patti is still in the "redo" state o' mind evoked last April with the release of her all-remakes collection Twelve). It was Smith's own anthemic treats that most galvanized the gathered, songs like "Redondo Beach", "Because the Night"' and "People Have the Power" (last song of the eve, dotted with exhortations to use the vote), inspiring middle-aged concertgoers who knew better to scream themselves hoarse as they propelled their careworn bodies into the air.

For me, though, the covers stole the show. "Are You Experienced?" was exotically intoxicating, buoyed by fucking clarinet, of all instruments (not necessarily stoned...but classical); "Smells Like Teen Spirit" was slowed to a strut, an ideal platform for a woman aged 60 to take wrought lyrics penned by a grimey geek in his early twenties and loft them back up into the air with hoarse grace, seeing if they can float with all the added weight. As she is wont to do, Smith added her own spoken word, referencing tiger maulings at one point. I don't think that had anything to do with the recent San Francisco zoo tragedy, but it made me proud of the DC Zoo, for sure.

"White Rabbit" was hilarious, Patti waxing rapturous over a recent Italian production of Tristan and Isolde that included a recapping of the plot ("King Mark?") and a fuzzy yarnball wherein she approached the set after the play was done, partook of the prop potions and began eating the Jello-seeming setting. The director reproached her until he realized: "Oh--Patti Smiths!" After a few more minutes of devouring the planks, she noticed his head turn white and fuzzy, with long ears hanging down the side and, well--"Aren't you late?" Then straight into the song, Patti and crowd exhorting "Feed your head!" until one imagines even Ian MacKaye was converted. (Yes, he was there.)

The only cover that didn't surpass the source material was "Perfect Day". Don't mistake me, it was wonderful in the way you would expect one poet laureate covering another would be. But it came up short due to two factors, the first being the utter sublimity of Lou Reed's original, and the second being Smith's admittedly amusing inability to remember some of the lyrics ("It's such a perfect day/This is the part of the song where I can never remember the words/So I always make something up/Isn't it fun").

Not only was the whole band in near-peak form, Patti's stage banter was a veritable clinic in audience engagement. Not like she had to win anyone over, but she was clearly thrilled to be in DC, making her a rare bird indeed. When she wasn't dissing Romper Room or detailing her flirtations with Tom Verlaine ("'Why don't we go to the bathroom and poop in the toilet at the same time?' That's how I got him"), she was owning some super-tall redheaded shoulda-been-a-stepchild near us who kept yelling what he thought was witty stuff in between songs. He finally stopped over his "oh-isn't-that delightfully-funny!" exhortations to "play something with some heart!" first caused Patti to wonder if he was yelling about a "hard on" and then ended with her making fun of him. "Har har har! I can't understand this guy." Humbled, he moved from in front of me, and scurried to some other remote area of the venue, where, hopefully, he was able to enjoy the show now that he could not successfully interject himself into it.

Lenny Kaye got a solo turn with "Pushin' Too Hard", under the pretext of Patti going to the bathroom. Upon her return, she admitted that she actually used the time out to "check out boys".

"I'm lookin' for a man. I need someone to build me bookcases." Which is probably the hardest I've ever laughed at a concert. Wonder why they call you Goddess!

Mostly the people around me were all right, even the 40-ish dude in the backwards white Navy ball cap who kept guzzling beer after beer, and responding to every high energy song by loudly asking his wife and daughter (?) if they were "feeling it". I was feeling it for awhile, certainly. "It" being the desire to grab one of them in the Von Erich claw, push them up against the speaker stack and increase the pressure till all the blood vessels in their head popped and they started shrieking like a Redead.

Midway through the set I was briefly joined to my left (and in front of Patrick) by a couple that looked about our age. The dude looked perfectly Pitchfork with his short cut and glasses, while his girlfriend had even shorter hair and wobbled back and forth with a red cup. They only stayed around for one song, during which time the drunk bitch decided to talk to the older woman and her daughter in front of us. "My mom died yesterday", she slurred, met with a response of clinking cups in sympathy and the words of semi-concern that only a complete fucking stranger you just met at a concert can muster. I was fortunate, I suppose, that no one caught my smirk. Your mom died, big fuck deal. My dad died this year, too, day before my birthday in fact. Who gives a shit. It's a goddamn concert I paid for, not your life story.

Some of the crowd reaction was good. I loved the girl in the way back who yelled "Eat my pussy!" But some of them were trying too hard, slightest provocation and they're off: "We're not Republicans!" Or, "It's not all about the money!" Which, you could put those two statements together and they'd fit, huh? Heh.

Throughout the night, Patti apologized for her "rough" voice, which was hilarious for a couple reasons. First off, she has never been known for dulcet vocals, and second, she did a shocking, heckler-proof version of "O Holy Night", probably the Christmas song that proves once and for all if a singer has chops or not. Does Patti have chops, then? Straight barbecued pork! As weird as it may have sounded for the woman who wrote "Jesus died for somebodys sins/But not mine" crooning an ode to the birth of the babe Christ, it was also captivating and even comforting. No fear guides this woman. None whatsoever.

Somehow, the guy with the Navy cap and his wife slow-dancing and lipsynching in front of me throughout certified those minutes as perfect. I'll never forget it.



Patti Smith 9:30 Club

Shonen Knife at the Black Cat

The greatest girl band alive since the greatest girl band retired played in DC tonight. It was my second time seeing them live (the first being two years ago, also at the Cat) and this performance surpassed that one.

Shonen Knife are basically the musical equivalent of a visit to Camp Snoopy, and being in the audience of a Shonen Knife show is to see through two different sights.

The first scope is your basic human eyesight. Through this, I saw myself simply and dully: the tallest girl in attendance, very likely the heaviest. I clocked the presence of many men. Middle-aged. Almost all without female companions.

The second scope is comparable to peering through a Magnum Power 675X telescope into the late night sky. The images captured are much more precise, unconcerned with the peripheral, focused rather on what truly matters--your reality as one of many, ecstatically immersed.

A Shonen Knife show is like being ensnared in a web formed of strawberry jelly, with three slyly-smiling spiders approaching you, each arachnoid a sickly-sweet amalgamation of sushi, marshmallow and bananas. Far from being the fearful, sweat-stinking victim, you are just one big beautiful candy bar swimming in nougat.

The night didn't start out great. Prior to the drive down to DC, I had taken one-and-a-half Vicodin tablets for nagging back pain. (It had to be pretty damn Marge Simpson for me to acquiesce to such powerful medication.) Dinner was a turkey salad sandwich, chips, dips and two kinds of salad--macaroni and a particularly tangy bowtie pasta. Once Patrick and I began the journey, my usual motion sickness kicked in, but much more intense than normal. The slightest visual stimuli became unbearable, and I spent the majority of the trip slumped in the passengers seat, eyes forced shut, head and gut throbbing, the sounds of Easter by the Patti Smith Group wafting from the CD player. The conversation was thankfully sparse.

"She's saying 'space monkey', right?"

"Yeah. That's the name of the song."

"Thurston Moore probably sings 'Because the Night' in the shower."

I missed the virtually barren blocks of Georgia Avenue that chilly Saturday as I tried the defense of stillness and temporary blindness against the lurching roil in my stomach. Mere blocks from the club, I made Patrick pull over to an empty parking space on a side street so I could admit defeat. Naturally, the release made me feel instantly worlds better. Of course, with every positive comes a negative, namely...puke-breath.

Hanging in the Black Cat's red room is always a comforting experience. Nothing better than to lean back against the couch cushions, relax, read up on the free issue of The Onion you grabbed from the mini-newspaper rack by the entrance ("New Sexual Harassment Policy Masturbated To") and marvel at the arcade game table that simply reads "multi game" on the side. It's also the most immaculate environment imaginable if you want to suddenly stand and have your significant others digital camera fall from your coat pocket onto the wooden floor, causing a thud rather than a clatter as it lands. No damage, but I was mildly berated by Patrick ("I can't take you anywhere").

At 9, the doors opened, and we hopped on up to the mainstage. A sharp right to the merch table revealed the sundry 30 buck import albums one must expect at such a gig. Fun! Fun! Fun! (the very newest SK wreck-hard, of which I have only heard snippets) was among these items, but I only had 30 on me to begin with. Once I saw the sweet black-and-green seahorse shirts for 20 bucks and the mega-rare SK/Thurston Moore "All I Want For Christmas" CD single from 1999 for 10 dollars, I knew where Alex and Andy would go.

Making our way to the front of the stage, I regaled Patrick with the backstory of said holiday non-standard.

"Naoko Yamano wants to do another Shonen Knife Christmas song, but she doesn't wanna write the lyrics. So she e-mails Thurston Moore and asks him to write lyrics. He sends 'em back, she writes the music, there ya go. Must be nice." Only very recently had I even heard this song via download, but I never stopped wanting the physical disc; it also includes a Thurston remix of the Knife classic "Cannibal Papaya", the best song about man-eating fruit since "Rhinestone Cowboy".

Time was passed with "Captain Purple". He's an older man, silver-haired and mustachioed-out, a big fan of the power-pop Shonen Knife traffics in. He's a generally genial sort, and would probably take a bullet for Allison Wolfe, but he kinda confused me when he dismissed Patti Smith as "too mainstream" for his tastes.

There were two openers on this night: Verona Grove and the Juliet Dagger, in that order.

Verona Grove were OK for two songs, after which they ceased to be an entity. Decent power pop chug, but the vocals reeked of mad Fall Out Boy. The drummer wore a shirt emblazoned with the word HAPPY bookended by skull 'n crossbones and made the kind of "fuck dude, I'm so gellin'!" faces that are easily chalked up to youthful exuberance but become intolerable when the band around him is churning out the Diet Rock brand of crap rock that's ruining Modern Rock radio. I began thinking of things that could possibly sound more stilted and half-assed than Verona Grove: Naoko Yamano biting into half of a bean burrito and then, without swallowing, reciting Remembrance of Things Past from the original French manuscript? Yeah, maybe, but at least I like burritos.

Also, their intro music was the theme to "Kill Bill". Hmm. Not a great sign, using a selection from the soundtrack to a film released this century. Say what you will about Metallica and Smashing Pumpkins, they recognize the importance of age in lending gravitas.

I did like their between-song exhortations to "hang out" at the bar and talk post-performance. A proletariat Fall Out Boy, then.

The Juliet Dagger were much better, a quartet fronted by a female singer/guitarist. They had all of the energy that almost salvaged Verona Grove, but were aided and abetted by actual good songs (and quite a few that sounded great).

Awaiting the Knife that is Shonen, I appraised the audience and found, in addition to the expected middle-aged dudes with crazy Asian babe fetish, that there were a refreshing number of young ladies who looked ready to screech and squeal and dance the mess up and down. In all honesty, I will take balding 40-somethings who actually seem to enjoy the music they paid to listen to and express this by dancing and yelling in tongues over the typical Sonic Youth crowd of Buckingham Palace guards-in-training.

The udo of "Mango Juice" took over the PA and the girls appeared not long after, matching outfits and all. Guitarist/vocalist/overall grand poohbah Naoko Yamano and newbie drummer Etsuko Nakanishi even held up football scarves proclaiming SHONEN KNIFE OSAKA in case anyone forgot or didn't know from where these fine ladies hailed. Original Knife Atsuko Yamano is still touring as the bassist, despite actually quitting the recording life after Genki Shock, the album preceding Fun! Fun! Fun! (and the record proudly promoted by a banner behind the drumkit).

Predictably, things blasted off with "Konnichiwa", welcoming us all to the show. This firecracker of a hello was barely extinguished when the choppy Ramones-y "Twist Barbie" assaulted the hearts and souls of the audience. Seeing Shonen Knife play their older material reminds any fan of how far they've come since the fuzzy tenuous guitar playing and clattering percussion of Burning Farm. Naoko is an assured guitarist, fully committed to playing even as she stares age 50 head on, and Etsuko is a much looser, more accomplished drummer than Atsuko was at the same age. Also, every male in the room fell in love with her, Patrick speaking for all when he spake thus: "She's so fucking cute!"

As with the last Shonen show, the setlist was varied and pleasing. In several spots, orgasmic. I mean, "Concrete Animals"? When the fuck do they ever play that? I went insane off the first few seconds when I recognized the riff, but a delayed reaction was in order for a group of Knife-lifers behind me who started screaming and hooting in recognition only when Naoko started singing. As much as the gloss of Rock Animals made the songs hit and miss, "Concrete Animals" has always been a favorite of mine, and in concert it was doubly powerful for the brashness that a live setting--away from the squeaky-clean knob-twiddles of Page Porrazzo--can't help but bring. Nowhere was the band looser with material originally designed to sell them to alterna-America than in Etsuko's playfully tight drumming, which eschewed the uncharacteristic fills Atsuko played in the studio in favor of snare work that let the song breathe.

Atsuko got a turn at the mike for the bouncy "Whatever". Naoko delicately introduced "S.P.A.M." as a song inspired by endless spam emails deluging her inbox, which makes me think Knife fan Lee Ranaldo needs to give props where props is due, kid. 'Cause that track is from '05.

And since I've brought up yet another member of Sonic Youth...I've been to 38 of that legendary band's concerts. With the Internet posting reviews mere hours after the house lights come up and the band's stubborn refusal to make "surefire crowd-pleaser" setlists, it's almost impossible for me to be truly shocked at an SY concert. "Shaking Hell" for the Rather Ripped tour was incredible, but anyone who read the band's forum knew it was being brought back as a "new oldie" for the set, in the tradition of "Skip Tracer" or "White Kross". The expectation for a Sonic Youth show is the quality of the performance of a limited pool of generally outstanding songs. In between, there may be some grade-A banter.

The aforementioned "Concrete Animals" was a shock to the system. Honestly, I didn't think the girls could repeat that effect. But they did.

"In Japan, there are public baths."

Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaatttttttttttttt? THE CAPS LOCK IS ON IN MY SOUL!

"But they are...female and male baths."

Oh nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo! They're gonna do it! They're going to dust off one of their greatest-ever songs, and indisputably the best song ever written about bathing!

Straight from Patrick's camera to your heart:



Unreal...if you had told me beforehand that I would go to see Shonen Knife at the Black Cat and end up with the "All I Want For Christmas" single and see "Concrete Animals" and "Public Bath", well...I may have possibly spat out soy milk on your shoes. How dare you.

Frequently, Naoko would preface songs with explanatory gab (as evidenced above). Hence, "Sushi Bar" encouraged fans to yell out their favorite types of sushi as the girls looked on in obvious delight.

"Beef!" someone yelled.

"We do have beef sushi in Japan", Naoko allowed.

Atsuko then chimed in, "Yes, but it is rare."

HA! Seriously, it took me two seconds longer to catch that quip than it should have. Guess that's the trade-off for recognizing "Concrete Animals" with the quickness. I just stood there wondering why people were laughing and going "aww!" until it finally struck me: "Oh yeah! Rare!"

"Flu" was another Fun! tune, one of those raucous, pseudo-metal tracks that the Black Sabbath lover in Naoko cannot help but attempt. The joke is, the band pulls it off. While "Flu" is not as Luciferically delicious as "Buddha's Face", it was still quite, um...contagious. *coughs* Oh shit, I got the flu!

The show was almost stolen away, however, by another song off the new release.

"This is a song about the Ramones. It is called...'Ramones Forever'."

Huge applause. There is no band more qualified than Shonen Knife, themselves given the blessing years ago by the boys, to write and play a fucking song titled "Ramones Forever". It was, as one would surmise, three chords played real fast in service of the keeping the heart of music pumping.

“One day I heard music from the radio
It was so fun! An amazing discovery
Next day I bought the album and listened again
Then I started my own punk rock band...

At last we got the chance to be their opening band
Like a dream on the same stage as my rock stars
It was their last tour of Japan.”

How guileless and sincere. How I adore them for this. Interesting that they decided to make a tribute song to the Barons of Brevity that's about four minutes long, but that's a minor point.

"Giant Kitty" is the final song on Genki Shock and it was the last song of the evening before the encore break. A number with the refrain of "Big big big big cat!" Yes, it is that incredible. I was a bobbing, popping, headbanging and hair-flopping puddle of delight all night. Throttle into overdrive moment of the eve came when, to conclude this ode to a big ol' feline, Naoko matter-of-factly ceased strumming, removed the mic from its stand, and held it out to the audience. I was almost directly in front of her, so it didn't take long for my eager vibes to attract the microphone to me like a magnet. Under Naoko's wide, expectant grin, I knew exactly what to do.

"Big big big big cat!"

Right into that motherfucker.

Patrick was next up and, despite having just popped his "Giant Kitty" cherry, he proved a great learner. That makes now three times I have had a performer proffer the mic before me to yell their own lyrics back at them (the previous two: Kim Gordon during "Kool Thing" and Mark Mothersbaugh during "Jocko Homo").

Their encore was "Wonder Wine" and, I shit you never, a dependably cheerful cover of "Satisfaction" (with the line "Trying to make some girl" replaced with "Trying to make some money"). I didn't think the second time seeing Osaka's happiest finest could be any more pore-cleansing, any more able to infuse me with the desire to write with an eye towards apotheosis, but I'll be a goddamned black bass if they didn't do it.

Shonen Knife have fun making music. If the idea of having fun listening to music isn't anathema to your mind--if, in other words, you haven't let the cynicism of rockism infest your brain and rot your soul--Shonen Knife should already be in your vocabulary.

Need further convincing? Yeesh, aren't you a tough nut to crack. Well...just stay tuned.


Shonen Knife Black Cat

Richard Branson Is Probably an "Only Built 4 Cuban Linx..." Type o' Guy

For the second straight year, Baltimore's Pimlico Race Course hosted the Virgin Festival, the musical clusterfuck birthed from the "transformational" smooth noodle atlas of pillionaire Richard Branson. For the first year, Patrick and I attended.

Waking 'round 6:30, we wasted precious little even more precious time with driving to the Old Court Metro station, then on to the Rogers Ave. station, where a bus was ready to shuttle crackers off. The morning of that Sunday was sunny yet mild. Unfooled, Patrick packed plenty sunblock.

The area surrounding Pimlico is typical "walk-brisk" Balto, with bummy storefronts and bus stop derelicts who acknowledge you only to insult you. The line is mainly younger folk, a lot with the yellow "two-day pass" wristband, and a distressing amount of Panic! At the Disco shirts.

A little after 10 AM, they started permitting folks entrance, with all flesh split into three unequal lines: those with VIP status (oh word to you, crab cake buffet and all no doubt), those with two-day passes, and those with tix for Sunday only. Finances were not the only reason we skipped out on the opening days aural pleasures. Get a gander at some of the acts on display that day: Fountains of Wayne, Amy Winehouse, Incubus, Modest Mouse. All ranging from boring to annoying to worse than rapists. The only bands that caught my eye were TV On the Radio and the reunited Police. The Beastie Boys played also, and I'm sure Adam Yauch's vocals were not only crystal clear, but that his lyrical flow was totally on-beat. Was Beastie wifey Kathleen Hanna in attendance as well, berating the sexist nature of something on site? Gee I sure hope so. Keep it real, Kathleen, since you don't seem to be doing much else.

"Bags will be searched!" Or, bags will be opened, a small flashlight shone into them, and no side pockets looked into at all. The Dimebag Darrell Memorial Security Team on hand, then?

Traversing the "venue" with a little under 2 hours before time of show was like trudging amid the nation's premier endless community yard sale. Scores of booths lined the east and west sides of the course, offering up music (Virgin Megastore had their own tent, with vinyl even), environmental info (Virgin Fest prides itself on being "green"; so does Bonnaroo, but in a different sense), and of course, FOODRINKFOOD. Pitas to gyros to crab cakes, pizza and burgers, even quesadillas and smoothies. Surely if one could not find a repast to satiate them, they were just way too picky to actually step foot outside the basement apartment they're about to get kicked out of anyway.

Making Virgin super-user-friendly was the presence of water fountains. Fest goers were allowed to bring no more than 2 factory-sealed water bottles in with them, which they could they refill to their li'l hearts content at said fountains. For those who get dehydrated with a notorious haste (um, that would be me), this was the kind of innovation that could prove to be an unparalleled Jebus-send.

After acclimation with the area, we found chairs in the "shade tent" nearest the North Stage, the larger of the two main stages. Whilst waiting for the days music to commence, time was passed with the guzzling of H20, the scarfing of a delightfully delicious lamb gyro (I can't even remember what that sauce is called, but oohhhhhh was it ever a fantastic treat for the tongue; EDIT: Patrick has informed me it is called "Tzatziki"), T-shirt-spotting (two Wu-Tang, one Mudhoney, two Dino Jr, two Smashing P "Zero" classics--which Corgan probably even thinks is laughable nowadays--and two goddamn Sonic Youth shirts. Hey Thurston Moore, you love Charm City, why don't you fuckin' bring your band 'round here to play then?! HUH? Wedding in Glen Burnie, my ass!), and smirking amusedly as two guys from the Trojan Condoms booth came over to the tent to dispense free sperm-oppressors. Wonder if it's policy to have the scumbags handed out by dudes who look as though they have very few opportunities to use them.

Someone had the brilliant idea of having a scroller over the stage to display fan text messages. Given a public forum, brilliance was inevitable--

"PANIC! IS THE BEST BAND OF THE WHOLE WEEKEND!!"

"PETER S. RULES!"

"TODAY IS THE GREATEST! ITS MY 33RD BIRTHDAY AND I'M STAYING UP FRONT ALL DAY FOR THE PUMPKINS"

And then there was the actual genius that snuck through--

"GZA SAYS DIVERSIFY YOUR BONDS"

"MUAH SNOOPY"

"PEANUTS AND SNOOPY?!"

Stayed seated near the North Stage for over two hours, by the end of which my bones felt battered. Yeah, nothing quite like sitting for 120 minutes with very little superfluous movement in 90-plus degree weather to tire one out.

CSS played first, prickly dance music for a smallish but still basically enthused crowd. They sounded tight and French, and even convinced security to let 3 festival goers dressed head to toe as trees onstage with the band to dance ("our own Destiny's Child").

Did a cover of L7's "Pretend We're Dead"! Man...L7 have almost been completely forgotten. Thanks CSS for remembering.

Apparently, they want beef with United Airlines. To the point of sucking on helium and proclaiming "Fuck United Airlines!" with predictably gut-busting results. For the scoop, check this link.

Regina Spektor came on to a gleeful gaggle of shrieking females utterly bewitched by her lilting vocals and delicate piano. She reminded me of how Chan Marshall would be if said chanteuse exuded beatitude as opposed to a beat attitude. Decent, especially when she started out acapella making a "drumbeat" by tapping a finger against the ball of the microphone; whatever that mariachi-style shit she was doing midway through, holy crap, never do that anywhere again ever.

The performance of Spoon brought me into better spirits for a few reasons: they reminded us of our friend up in Manhattan who works for Nasty Little Man, the band's publicity machine, and who told us she may be there at the fest in full-on work mode; I am a longtime fan of the band, and Patrick was just recently turned onto them through their latest release, Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga; theirs would be the final show to sit through before actually standing and walking like a couple of Rory Calhouns to the South Stage.

Well, the Spoon boys sounded fantastic, and I can't help but imagine (hope?) that they won over lots of folks with their gentlemanly execution of a stellar setlist highlighted by "Don't Make Me a Target." That song's chorus should be bellowed by every fucker watching. Oh, Britt, you is a dreamsicle. Patrick is summarily impressed. "I hope they come by the 9:30 Club, I want to see them in a smaller venue. They sound really good."

We would miss the next two acts at the North Stage: Panic! (are you fucking serious) and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, who Patrick was curious to see again, but well...you'll see.

By the time we took our ice cream treats down with us on the ground, Explosions in the Sky were into their set. As with the first time I saw them, they did the drone-to-crunch stuff magnificently, even if all told their presence on the bill stuck out like a cold sore. My general weariness and discomfort was actually well-served by their elongated harmonics.

The crowd, which had been rather respectful for Explosions, exploded for Bad Brains. Opening with "I Against I", are you serious. Ridiculous. Spazmatic dramatic all-the-way magic. HR was the sagely-blissed shaman as the entire band ravaged the stage with sheer sound (cannot give enough props to their soundman with the Nationals cap). With only a couple of reggae tracks thrown into the setlist, this was a pleasantly thrashing performance that whipped up a ferociously retarded moshpit in the middle of a crowd vomiting up crowd surfers by the dozens. (Thank you, festival screens, for giving those of us in the back premo shots of what we're too fucking old to try and deal with.) Finally, they made possible the wonderful sight, some 12 feet in front of me, of a 30-something dude in a backwards brown ball cap, dancing and singing and taking mad hits. I leaned over to Patrick: "Weed--making white people think they can dance since the beginning of time."

Look, I know we could have caught a half hour of the YYY's before Wu Tang Clan. I knew it then, I know it now. I regret nothing. I regret that I had to see all these poorly-tattooed shirtless wonderboys around us, rather. Great back job, dude. I bet you just live for the scorching days of summer when you can show off that...whatever it is. Says something about something against a backdrop of something else.

Directly in front of us on the ground was a father/mother/teen daughter group. The pops looked like a former hippie who still had his long hair, sloppy dress sense and facial hair, with an added middle aged paunch; the mom, she was no doubt from that era too, just add 20 more pounds; and the girl I imagined raised in a lasseiz-faire type household, exposed to cooler music earlier on, and encouraged towards chemical experimentation by her "with-it" parents, if not in fact given Weed 101 courses in the basement.

The 'rents had a brown grocery sack fulla Maryland's finest crabs (yes, some dude there was selling the little fuckers) that didn't last long. Not 'cause they scarfed 'em; the bottom of the bag gave out and sent slimy orange-red crustaceans onto the grass. They were salvaged by the mama's retrieval of a stronger plastic bag, thankfully. I woulda wept to witness those critters die twice.

Wu-Tang were 15 minutes late. Which means they were on time, basically. I liked the two dudes behind me having what I'm sure they fancied as a funny conversation:

"Why aren't there any musical instruments on the stage?"
"'Cause, uh, they don't know how to play any? They aren't talented enough?"
"And yet they're famous musicians! Imagine that."

The screens flashed an amazing sight: Richard fuckin' Branson up in the VIP scaffolding, waiting for the Wu. Unreal! I had to give dude balls for actually coming to his festival (as opposed to just treating it like another investment) and credit for seeing fucking Wu fucking Tang.

The only hip hop act we've seen multiple times (this making our second), the entire Clan minus Masta Killa--and I cannot be the only one wondering what the hell he had going on in his life that could supersede this gig--took the stage to a massive, and massively adoring, crowd that was only 95% white people. In Baltimore! I had a black dude next to me with his white gal buddy who just could not "believe I am seeing Wu Tang, they're actually here, oh God!"

To my great happiness, the family I described earlier were beyond excited as well, and big papa even busted out the video camera to document the show.

RZA started it off by telling us that "there's been a lot of talent on this stage today and you're about to see even more talent. I just have to say one thing...TIGER STYLE!" And straight into Underdoggy-style, as the anthemic "Wu Tang Clan Ain't Nuttin' Ta Fuck Wit'" smashed into the crowd, the relentless clickety-clack snares and barked lyrics ("And the survey says/'You're dead!") inspiring joyous jumping and feral cracker-ass cracker crowd surfing, young men popping up amid the squished-together flesh like desperate, futile flares into the daytime sky.

GZA, Ghostface, Rae and Method Man all got the chance to shine solo ("Liquid Swords", "4th Chamber", "Fish", "Ice Cream", "Bring the Pain", all told), and the hits kept rolling. The only damper was the little problem with GZA's mic...and Raekwon's mic...and at some point U-God's mic (but who the fuck cares if U-God's mic goes out onstage, it should go out when he's in the studio too, if you ask me). Prompting Method Man to address the situation.

"Yo people in the back, when the music is on, can you hear these mics?"

"NOOOO!"

"Well these sound people get paid a lot of money to get this shit right, so tell 'em 'get it right'!"

"GET IT RIGHT!"

Which, more or less, they did. How humiliating, with Branson right there. Humiliating and hilarious!

One of the only songs off the debut we didn't hear when we saw the Wu in DC last year, "Tearz", was masterfully performed at Virgin. The crowd was getting progressively crazier with each passing minute; if you weren't taking part in the surfing/moshing, you were "throwing up the 'W'" and grooving in the most hardcore sense of that classic term.

"Gravel Pit", the oft-derided single off The W, is actually one of my favorite latterly Wu songs, and it was a perfect song for B-more ("Get stupid!" RZA exhorted before the beat dropped. Yeah, uh, Diggs, what does it look like we've been doing?).

Believe it or not, I have even more to say about this set, but it can wait till the end.

It started to rain steadily when we headed back to catch Interpol (who are like a chicken salad sandwich to me; serviceable, and rarely outstanding). A crowd was gathered away from the action on stage as fest staff were on a concrete ramp grappling with a fan. All I could see was three security dudes holding down some dude with a leg tattoo. Opposite me, a guy was capturing it all on his digital camera. Never did discover the story behind it all.

A trip to the Port-a-Jenn caused trepidation; my capris already stained with "grass-ass", I didn't need any further ruination. Without going into detail like I oh so could, I'll just say that whoever was in there before me, they made an effort to not hit the target. Okay? And good job at it, too. Jeesh. Truly I can say I had the full festival experience.

Had to don a poncho. I felt like a cow with protective tarp on.

Smashing Pumpkins were the final act for the North Stage (311 was closing down the South Stage) and their set was maddening. We watched from a safe distance, depending on the screen as much as anything, as Billy, Jimmy, and the two noobs came out in that glam-prison garb to the strains of Suspiria. ("You know who that's by," I told 'Trick, "that's by Goblin. Italian prog-rock band. Lotta hip hop producers sample their stuff." Patrick paused. "Oh yeah, I can definitely hear why.")

If you're gonna start out your "triumphant" set with new shit, make it good, and well, "United States of America" is a good 'un off Zeitgeist. Also thumbs up to vicious renditions of "Tarantula" and "Doomsday Clock".

It was funny as hell when the gentle intro plucks of "Today" filled the muggy air; I turned left and it looks like the largest 200 yard dash is taking place, as people run towards the stage. If they did a few of the new songs well, the band plowed through their "hits". In addition to "Today", "Bullet With Butterfly Wings", "Tonight Tonight" and--wait for it!--"Zero."

"Let's call Annie", Patrick suggested.

"'Oh my God, Annie, 'God is empty just like me, 'cause I'm in love with my sadness.' She will be so jealous we got to hear the lyrics to 'Zero' live."

Which brings us to the less-than-spectacular aspects of the Billy Corgan Ego Show. This son of a fucker thinks he can just throw shit like "Starla" and "Death From Above" in the meat of the set and get away with it. He prefaced "Starla" with "I wrote this at a time when I was doing a lot of mushrooms." Thanks for giving me ammo next time I get into a debate re: drug use inspiring the best music!

"Death From Above" might as well be renamed "Death From the Stage", as it caused an undeniable exodus of flesh. "I hope they're leaving the festival, and not going to see 311," Patrick said. "'Cause there's just no excuse for doing that."

After playing "1979", thereby pleasing Patrick no end, they proceeded into "That's the Way", a sucky new song that is apparently the new single. Yeah, you would pick a sucky one, asshole. It was nearing 10, so we vowed to give them one more chance. The next song was "Heavy Metal Machine". Piss off.

Walking through the mud to the South entrance I was mildly peeved.

"They didn't play 'Cherub Rock'," I muttered. "It's only the best 'hit' they have."

"They played a really good '1979' though."

"Yeah, you got your favorite song, I didn't get mine. Fucker Corgan."

"Ha! Haaaaaterrrrrrrs."

That was a minor complaint compared to what we were subjected to leaving Pimlico: the sounds of 311. The end of their horrific cover of "Love Song" was bowel-clenching enough. Nothing could adequately prepare us for what happened next.

"This is for all the old-school 311 fans."

Oh dear.

Then it could be heard. A sound so ghastly it transported my poor kicking/screaming soul back to 1996, when its horror was newborn and cooed over. That wretched gaping maw of a riff, dripping pure weaksauce from a sky already dropping down enough crap. After these few seconds of frightful nostalgia: "Chill!"

Ah, shit!

The Pumps' bullshit song selection have unwittingly thrust us into the most unenviable position possible at Virgin Fest (just barely beating out, "under Scott Weiland's naked body")--walking through 311's mega '90s hit "Down", a shoutout to all their "Omahomies" that never had the guts to tell them they sucked at their punk/rap/dancehall schtick. Guess weed forgives even the most grievous artistic sins.

Oh, listen to me! Prez of a real Hateration Nation, ain't I. The gutless guitar, the pussy drums, the Flea-ridden bass, SA Martinez' rapping through his scrotum, and Nick Hexum's crooned chorus, which is mixed even higher than you need to be to find this song good. Jeez, I am just a real bitch. Golly. I didn't like this shit when I was a teenager, and it aged as well as...whichever celebrity you can think of that hasn't aged well. Stupid band, ruining my reference capabilities!

I saved my greatest ephemeral burst of vitriol for my wonderful Patrick. Since I couldn't yell at Billy for driving us away a li'l early, I decided to turn on Patrick for agreeing to head out in the first place.

"Impeccable timing, asshole!"

He giggled, as I hoped he would.

After that...wow. The Rogers Ave subway was packed. The guard on duty was suggesting to everyone that if people would go to the end of the train, filling each car in order, everyone would have room to sit. It didn't happen that way, mainly 'cause motherfuckers were tired. Sure enough, said helpful guard stuck his head in our car and said, "I know a secret! And if you'd listened to me, you'd alll be sitting right now. Ha-ha!" And yes, he did it just like Nelson Muntz.

Okay, I promised more Wu-Tang, as they were the best show of the day. Props to Complex Blog for a great combo of pics and vids. (You disrespected Poppi Wardrobe King, though, guys.) That was my Woodstock! Woo, when Meth told us to make as much noise as we could for as long as we could...yeah, it's a hoary live rap show trick, but we responded like they'd stop the show at anything less than the sound barrier being shattered. They ate us up. I felt enormous pride when Meth gave thanks to "Baltimore, Maryland", and not just "B-more." Throw ya Bohs up!

Smashing Pumpkins Baltimore Virgin Fest Wu Tang Clan