Lou Reed is such an asshole he probably has trademarked the phrase: Lou Reed is an asshole. Intriguingly, exuding all the ugly, musky elements of an unattended anus is an essential element of his stage act, yet it offers absolutely no entertainment value – except perhaps for the sniveling, callous-kneed sycophants in the crowd who are too lost and broken to realize that the only person Lou hates more than them is himself.
Sadly, Lou seems to believe that being an asshole gives him credibility, that it makes him real. The hideously leathered simian obviously thinks that the contemptuous puss that oozes from his essence somehow symbolizes his authenticity. Really, though, he’s just another asshole with a guitar. The world is littered with them. It’s all quite pitiful, especially since Lou Reed’s music is actually pretty great.
Lou Reed is an Asshole: get your t-shirt before they sell out
Oh well, Lou’s hate rules supreme and he is content to let his music take a backseat to his manufactured degenerate persona. By 1996, he’d been tirelessly honing the schtick of being an asshole for three decades. At this point, he didn’t even have to say anything, he just looked out on the crowd, almost shocked that he’s pulled off another heist, that people were still willing to put up with this shit from him. He is a perpetual eye-roll, the embodiment of practiced indifference. He is simultaneously a rich teenage girl whose favorite word is whatever and an old prostitute who is somehow still getting the big money even though she’s completely hollowed out inside.
Above all, this meeting was a business transaction; the New York bloodsucker had come to sunny LA to collect his toll. Like a streetwalker resigned to fulfilling her part of the deal, he went on to play “Sweet Jane” with the spiritual energy he probably generally reserves for moving his bowels. He hates his fans and he hates the songs that made him famous. We get it. His practiced scorn wafted like sour cologne, which very well may have been by design, for if given a chance Lou Reed wouldn’t think twice about whoring out “Sweet Jane” for a deodorant commercial, although he’d probably much prefer if the offer was for a douche.
By the fourth or fifth song, I could no longer play my part in this charade. So, I left. I’d seen Lou Reed before and it’s a similar experience to drinking Dr. Pepper. For some reason, in theory, I think carbonated prune juice sounds delicious. In a weak moment I might buy a bottle, fully realizing that in practice, Dr. Pepper is as refreshing as a trip to an overflowing Honey Pot. One swig and I’m done. Seeing Lou Reed is like that.
Besides, I’d come for Luna anyway. They opened the show. While clearly indebted to the Velvet Underground for their sound, their attitude is California all the way. As always, they were great.
Consider this a palate cleanser:
Some bands are best appreciated under the influence of alcohol. Despite the trippy name, Guided By Voices are such a band. To not be drunk at their show is to not honor the spirit of the music.
As a native of Ohio, I feel like I should love Guided By Voices much more than I do. Oh sure, I dig their albums of the mid 1990s, particularly Bee Thousand and Alien Lanes, but for me, frustratingly, the whole of GBV is decidedly less than the sum of its parts. While the Dayton rockers are famous for their quick songs – if you don’t like this one, another is about to start up – after awhile they get monotonous. The problem is that while that next song may be better (but not that much different) than the last one, ultimately, via proximity, the not-so great songs begin to diminish their brilliant brethren.
Still, GBV certainly has enough truly great pop nuggets to string together an epic show. Despite being self-sabotaging, they are magnificent in all their paradoxical glory – how do you make such polished gems yet be so messy? It’s quite a combination and occasionally transcendent.
Unfortunately, that night they were playing the Whisky. It was a perfect storm: GBV requires the addition of alcohol and the best way to enjoy (or better yet, endure) The Whisky is to drink a bottle of the same. Foolishly, we failed to heed the call. Had we been wasted, perhaps it would have sounded great. But at best, the sound was tinny and flat, which is no surprise since the unnecessarily famous venue is essentially a very large beer can. The place traditionally sounds awful and if the crowd’s protestations in the video from the next night is any indication (posted below: the sound is actually pretty good, because it’s a soundboard, not what the audience heard), no matter how much they screwed with the speakers, it still came out fucked. Meanwhile, Pollard couldn’t hear himself: (27:04 minutes in): “Where’s the monitor man in this fucking place? … I’m a nice guy, but I’d like to have some fucking monitors …I’ve been begging for monitors for 48 hours now. What do I have to do, suck somebody’s fucking dick?” There’s a reason only headbanging bands were generally booked at The Whisky – the sound is a joke and heavy metal fans and their bands are too stupid and addled to know it. Apparently, they think because Axl Rose played there and because of its bitchin name, The Whisky must be cool. Not so.
- Robert Pollard Shows the Way
I went with my buddy J. and we were pretty excited about this show, but about half way through we were bored and ready to go. So we did. Maybe if we’d been drunk, it would have been a different story. Since we weren’t exactly on the band’s wavelength, we deserve some of the blame. Clearly, we should have been there for the opener, Spoon, but we weren’t. Incidentally, the same thing happened to us the one time we went to a strip club. We weren’t drunk at all. We over-intellectualized everything, felt sorry for the girls and left the club feeling dirty. Our night at the Whisky was a lot like that.
The second show of their two night stand can be viewed in its entirety here. It’s rather incredible:
I think I’d like these guys a lot more if they didn’t have such a precious name.
Nonetheless, barring any unforeseen calamities, I’ll be seeing them tomorrow at Seattle’s Crocodile. I wish I could be more definitive, but like many of their fans I could easily be waylaid by a knitting accident and there’s always the possibility of a snafu involving my synchronized Vespa squad. Tomorrow night we’re having a cupcake baking jamboree before the show. Anything could happen!
The Aragon Ballroom on Chicago’s Northside is a glorious old venue that transports all who enter to an old Spanish plaza that’s apparently been taken over by a whorehouse. There are corners to hide in and painted stars sparking up the sky. It’s a truly majestic, somewhat devilish room. As such, over the years it’s developed a reputation for being the focal point of violence and mayhem.
It should be no surprise that it lived down (or is it up?) to its reputation when Jane’s Addiction took its fabled stage in November 1990. Jim Morrison used to say he could could stand above a crowd, say nothing, and inspire a riot. Perry Farrell climbed the walls of the faux-Spanish facade, looked down on his minions and his gaze had a similar effect. The crowd was clearly ready to do his diabolical bidding.
- 5000 Drug-Crazed Kids + Perry Farrell = Mayhem
Living up to its promise, the show was an orgy of rock n roll debauchery. Beers were thrown. Dancers were slammed. Chairs were smashed. From the first note to the last, a forbidding electric current pulsed threw the crowd and it was nothing short of glorious. Jane’s Addiction was the Greatest Band in the World at the time and it was a title they weren’t planning to give up without a brawl. They were on the top of the mountain and they defended their position with exploding drums and an armory of guitars, spraying any and all comers full of lead.
I watched with jaw dropped and spine tingling. It was simply one of the most awe-inspiring performances I’d ever seen. Jane’s Addiction was everything a rock band should be: sexy, dangerous and out-of-control.
- A Beautiful Death Trap
The mayhem had an echo. The proceedings only got more out-of-hand once the show was over. The venue holds 5000 people and to get there you have to go up stairs. As far as I remember, there’s one way in and one way out. Upon the show’s completion, people were pushing and shoving their way to the exit as if they were escaping a fire. I was caught in the rush and on the stairs it got ugly fast. A surge of sweaty bodies crushed against each other. Shouts of protest were met with more pushing. It was, for some, clearly part of the fun.
A girl in front of me fell down. Had I not pulled her back up, she undoubtedly would have been trampled to death – which is to say, yes, I saved her life. I remember her looking back and smiling before she was swallowed by the current and taken out of my site. Had there been an internet back then, we probably would have ended up reconnecting. Maybe we would have fallen in love and every single thing about my life would be different today. We’d tell the story of how we met and it’d always end with me saying, but really, in the end, it was her who saved me … whether not it was true or not wouldn’t even matter, because no one really wants to be with someone they saved, they want to be with someone who saved them. Otherwise, what’s the point?
Tragically, without Facebook to bridge the gap of awkward human interaction, we were left to helplessly spiral out of his each other’s orbit as randomly as we had come in, leaving our time together to be nothing more than a sobering moment in a night that was sloppy, wobbly and largely out-of-focus.
When we got out on the street, the riot was in full gear. A car was already turned over and burning. The street was full of cops ready to bash heads. Deliriously buzzed from the near-death experience, we headed the other way towards The Green Mill and got out of the neighborhood as fast as we could.
Up The Beach –Whores — Standing In The Shower… Thinking — No One’s Leaving — Ain’t No Right — Ted, Just Admit It… — Pigs In Zen — Been Caught Stealing — Three Days — Mountain Song — Stop! — Summertime Rolls — Thank You Boys — Ocean Size — Jane Says
Video from shows in Milan seven weeks earlier:
Steve Goodman – A Dying Cub Fan’s Last Request (1983)
“Ahh, play that lonesome loser’s tune. That’s the one I like the best … What we got here is The Dying Cub Fan’s Last Request.”
Steve Goodman’s masterpiece is simply the greatest baseball song ever written and certainly one of the most heartbreaking songs of all-time. And that would probably be the case even if the songwriter’s circumstances weren’t as tragic as the fate of the Cubs themselves. Steve Goodman had been living and dying with leukemia since the late 1960s and when he wrote this prescient ballad, he only had about a year left.
To add salt to the wound, Steve Goodman would die eleven days before the Cubs would play their first post-season game in 39 years. It would have been a great day. Goodman was scheduled to sing the National Anthem and although he didn’t make to Wrigley Field in body, surely he was there in spirit. His pal Jimmy Buffet pinch hit and the Cubs went on to win the opener 13-0. The Cubbies won again the next day 4-2 and were now one victory away from going to the World Series for the first time since “the year we dropped the bomb on Japan.” In traditional Cub fashion, defeat was snatched from the jaws of victory: they lost three straight in San Diego. They’ve been waiting for next year ever since.
As the dying man’s friends surround him on his deathbed:
He whispered, “Don’t Cry, we’ll meet by and by near the Heavenly Hall of Fame.”
He said, “I’ve got season’s tickets to watch the Angels now,
So it’s just what I’m going to do.”
He said, “But you the living, you’re stuck here with the Cubs,
So it’s me that feels sorry for you!”
lonesomebeehive 