Ten Shows: Part V

Holy-long-gap-between-posts, Batman! I'll try not to let it happen again. Well, here's the 2nd-to-last post for the Top 10 shows I've attended series. This went on way longer and is much more verbose than I intended. I should have taken Faulkner's advice. Oh well...

Next post: THE BEST SHOW EVER.

Enjoy

Phish, Irvine Meadows Amphitheater, Irvine, CA 9-19-1999

As I’ve stated in a previous blog, I never quite got the whole anti-Phish sentiment that a lot of Deadheads maintain. It’s funny, because from an outside perspective, had you walked the parking lot of a Dead show in the early-mid 1990’s or a Phish show from 1995-on, well, you probably wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between the two as far as the look and feel goes. Many Phish fans branched off and dropped the Dead scene due to the overwhelming popularity of the Grateful Dead and the massiveness of their shows. Phish was more intimate and was still the fans band in a way.

That all changed. Even more so after the Grateful Dead was no more.

Although I’ve never researched any exact numbers (nor do I plan to,) there was a huge spike in Phish show attendance after Garcia’s death and the demise of the Dead: this likely led to some of the conflict. I’m sure the “old-school” Phish fans resented the influx of Deadheads. The first time I saw Phish I recall a couple of hippies arguing over who was the bigger fan.

“Well I saw them back in ninety-four at” such-and-such venue.

“Yeah, well, I was going to shows in ninety-three…”

Ridiculous, really, but that’s not what this post is about.

I saw Phish for the first time in the summer of 1999. My wife and I had been anticipating the show for some time—we had been going to as many of the post-Jerry incarnations of the Dead as we could manage yet were ready to experience something new. I had a grasp on their repertoire by then as I had collected a fair amount of bootleg shows in addition to their studio releases. Like the Grateful Dead and many other jam bands, Phish allowed taping at their concerts so long as they were not used for commercial profit.

Irvine Meadows was a short distance from where we were living at the time. As we tooled south on the 405, the freeway became thick with vehicles sporting the “Phish” emblem. The logo was a clever take on their name designed in such a way it resembled the outline of an actual fish:

                                                                           

As we approached the exit for the amphitheater and made for the parking area I noticed no discernible difference between this lot-scene and that of a Dead show.  Drum circles were pounding away, every 10^th head was a mop of dreads, marijuana smoke wafted about, mixing in with sage, patchouli, and grilled cheese. Vehicles ranged from wildly painted school buses to brand-new SUVs. Everywhere you looked were hippies on skateboards and bikes, college kids partying, and the occasional dog wandering that may have been named Cassidy or Althea (or Trey?)  It really was just like a Dead show.

 Yet upon settling in and walking the lot for a bit the differences became more apparent. The crowd was generally much younger; not as many crusty hippies left over from the 60’s lurked about. The general mood of the fans wasn’t quite as “peace, love, and happiness” either. Being as how Phish first gained traction close to their roots in Vermont, a large contingent of their fan base was East Coast. And with that came a more stand-offish attitude. I’d come to find out (or heard) that East-coast Phish fans selling stuff in the lot were much more apt to rip you off.

Regardless, the general mood was still festive—generous amounts of drugs and alcohol changed hands and everyone was partying. We got primed for a couple of hours and filtered into the amphitheater to find our seats, stage right, just a section or two in front of the general admission lawn. The sun was disappearing behind the hills to our back as the venue lights came up and then dimmed again. The sell-out crowd was building with an intense anticipation I hadn’t experienced since seeing the Dead for the last time almost 5 years previous. As Trey and the band stepped out, the crowd absolutely erupted and was sent into a frenzy of whirling, wild dancing as the band opened with the song NICU.

As the late summer California day fell dark, a strange thing happened. The band launched into the 3^rd song, an instrumental called First Tube, which has an awesomely complicated polyrhythmic structure to it. At the same time a car dealership down the hill and across the freeway lit up their huge spotlights to attract would-be buyers to their lot. The spotlights shifted across the sky and fell into rhythm (a polyrhythm mind you) with the song. It was as if the entire city, as well as the venue, was pulsating and became one with the band—the energy surged and suddenly everything in our extended space was absolutely electric and alive and was in tune and rhythm with the music.

A hippie to my right turned and said:

“Can you feel it, man? Can you feel it?”

Yes, as a matter of fact I could.

The band played on for two sets and an encore which totaled over two hours of music. As the band built into an intense jam during the second set droves of fans began twirling glow necklaces and bracelets—the kind you get at the fair or around Halloween. As the song reached its zenith, the band and crowd entwined in a rapid crescendo, everyone began throwing the glowing jewelry, the stadium exploding into a psychedelic glow-stick battle that continued for most of the rest of the concert.  The band truly played to the crowd and the crowd to the band. There was a oneness at that show that was unlike anything I’d experienced before.

I understood then why so many Deadheads jumped ship for Phish. Being a Phish fan in the 90’s could be likened to seeing the Dead in the 70’s. You were a part of an exclusive subculture that was still somewhat new and unique that the world hadn’t yet fully discovered or understood.

I was absolutely enthralled with Phish after that show and saw them several more times through the years, including a recent solo show by Trey Anastasio here in Portland (which almost made this list actually.) Phish is a fantastically talented band, and although I never grew to love them as much as the Dead, they are among one of my favorite bands and are one of the torchbearers from that fire on the mountain the Grateful Dead ignited so long ago.

Wilco, Les Schwab Amphitheater, Bend, OR 8/23/2008

Someone burned me a couple of Wilco CDs back in 2001 or 2002. I gave them each a partial listen without too much interest and they were shuffled into my CD collection, perhaps never to see the laser on my CD player again. It doesn’t surprise me, really. I was pretty snobbish about what I listened to then. The reasons are ridiculous in hindsight—I was very centric to jam bands then and was trying to make it as a musician myself. For a time I was fairly narrow-minded music-wise, listening only to those I wanted to emulate.

I came to my senses eventually—I should have much sooner, especially in regards to Wilco.

It wasn’t until 2005 that I realized what a great band Wilco is. A friend I worked with at the time mentioned them once. I recall telling him I had a few CDs. He asked if I had heard their live stuff. No, I hadn’t. Well, they are all about their live stuff.

And that’s when I got Wilco—after listening to Kicking Television, a live recording they did at the Fox Theater in Chicago.

I hadn’t had an album grab me like that since listening to American Beauty and Wake of the Flood by you-know-who. I was a Wilco fan overnight. I found my copies of Yankee Hotel Foxtrot and A Ghost is Born. The albums lay dormant under a stack of garage demos by bands you’ve never heard of like Television Child and 2 Tone Turtle. Within a month I had bought just about everything in Wilco’s small catalog and soon discovered they allowed taping at their shows—just like the jam bands—and  that there was a fair amount of bootleg material out there for free trading on music swapping sites.

My first opportunity to see Wilco got nixed. They played McMenamin’s Edgefield just outside of Portland in the summer of 2007, and due to a last minute babysitting debacle we had to cancel. The following summer they came to Bend, Oregon and with a bit more planning time ahead of us we were able to go. We arrived in Bend just in time to have a late lunch and catch Wilco’s sound check from the patio of the hotel restaurant. In fact, after checking in, we realized we wouldn’t have needed tickets at all. Our balcony looked directly over the amphitheater, and was likely a better seat than some of the concerts I’d been to with nosebleed tickets.

But of course we were going to be on the grass for this show. We got to the amphitheater just as the opener— Fleet Foxes—came on stage. We found a clear spot on the field just to the left of the soundboard. The day was warm, the crowd mellow, and the booze cheap. In fact, they sold wine by the bottle. Ah yes… by the bottle.

Wilco fans are not hippies, nor are they hipsters. They seemed to be just an average lot of late 20 through 40-somethings. There were lots of families but it didn’t have that Oregon Zoo Concert Series feel to it where you expect the Wiggles to come on stage instead of Matisyahu.

Wilco’s heart and soul, Jeff Tweedy, engages, occasionally teases, and even taunts audience members—especially if they are drunk. He’s a very interactive performer yet is sometimes moody and even gets surly on occasion. That night he commented on the amount of marijuana smoke wafting his way “oh yea… we’re in Oregon.” Cranking out tunes that lay somewhere between Americana, alternative, and a bit of psychedelia, Wilco’s sound is unique—it has elements of pop without being shallow or trite—the songs are well-crafted and engaging yet not overly preachy on any particular subject. Tweedy writes about life—simple things that catch his attention or musings on relationships or his kids.

Wilco pays homage to their forbears without sounding like someone else’s song.

That night we danced and drank and sang along and laughed and had the most fun we had had in years—period. Wilco rolled through their repertoire, 2 sets and an encore that included members of the Fleet Foxes coming out to do a cover of Dylan’s I Shall Be Released, Tweedy even indulging in a falsetto for the last verse.

As the concert wrapped we stumbled back towards the hotel and collapsed under a tree for a time as one of our friends went shopping for a concert shirt near the exit. The night was warm; my head buzzed from the music and wine. The crowd hummed and laughed and chatted as they went their respective ways.

Wilco is just a damn good band.  They write great songs, put on an entertaining and energetic concert, and I really believe I caught that first show at an opportune time in my life. I was a fairly new parent and had moved well beyond the desire to follow bands up and down the state or across the country. I was becoming much more grounded in many ways. I finished college just a week previous (I didn’t start until I was 28) and was ramping up for a new career and essentially, a new life. I was in a good place that summer weekend, and Wilco provided a proper soundtrack to what was really a turning point in my life.

Ten Shows: Part IV

Well I’m getting down to the final few shows on this series of music blogs: 10 of my all-time favorite concerts. As I stated previously, these have been presented in no particular order. I tried to draw from the wide variety of shows I’ve seen while considering everything from the quality of the performance to the overall mood and experience of the show. The final three concerts (coming soon) are a culmination of these qualities and therefore I’m saving the best for last. 

But, again, to continue the list in no particular order:

Lollapalooza I, Southwestern College/Devore Stadium, San Diego, CA 7/20/1991

I decided to include only one of the two Lollapalooza shows I attended in the 90’s; it was a difficult choice when deciding between the first and second incarnations of the travelling rock and roll circus.  Line-up wise Lollapalooza II was definitely chock-full with bigger names: Red Hot Chili Peppers, Soundgarden, Pearl Jam, Ministry, Ice Cube etc. Additionally, they had quite a side-show going on in the concession area of Irvine Meadows which included a set by Rage Against the Machine. A line-up like that wasn’t something you could count on every summer.

 Yet I settled on Lollapalooza I for my top 10 for many reasons. It was my first festival show; it was the first show I went to where my parents or friend’s parents didn’t drop us off/pick us up. Most of my extended circle of high school friends were there and throughout the festival, whether in line at the concessions or crammed against the stage, I ran into people I knew, giving the entire event a strange sort of familiarity. The entire day had the feel of the keggers we’d throw in the orange groves or at the house of whoever’s parents happened to be out of town for the weekend.

And let’s not forget the line-up. Although not nearly as full of household names as Lollapalooza II, there were some great bands there, all of which I had at least an interest in seeing:

Jane’s Addiction
Siouxsie and the Banshees
Nine Inch Nails
Butthole Surfers
Living Color
Ice-T and Body Count
Violent Femmes
Rollins Band

Rollins opened the festival. We had crammed up towards the front of the stage and could see Henry off behind a stack of amplifiers, jumping up and down and throwing punches, obviously psyching up for the set. A dozen or so hapless concert goers had set up blankets right up next to the stage, unaware of the fracas that would ensue as soon as Rollins took the stage. And ensue it did.  The crowd went ape-shit when Rollins got on the mike. Droves ran in horror from the pit as blankets went aloft and the crowd degenerated into an old school punk rock free-for-all. 

What a way to get the party started.

I wandered about the venue during the Femmes set. I recall a drunken Gibby Haynes from the Butthole Surfers going on an intelligible rant. Siouxsie Sioux, still the sexy beast, pranced about the stage in the same goth-style she helped create along with Robert Smith of The Cure in the early 80’s.

Nine Inch Nails “performed” a terse, 20 minute set… that is Trent Reznor proceeded to destroy all of the equipment on stage due to technical difficulties less than 30 minutes in. Guitars went flying, the keyboard was chucked into the drum kit, and Trent cursed and belittled the sound crew before storming off stage. 

After a handful of his “traditional” rap songs, Ice-T brought out his metal band: Body Count. An epic moment and one of the first rap-metal crossover attempts, Body Count nearly stole the show. 

Lyrics from the song, There Goes the Neighborhood summed it up: 

Don’t they know rock’s just for whites? Don’t they know the rules?

All the aforementioned bands put on great sets, yet the absolute pinnacle of the show was Jane’s Addiction. As much as I hated sharing my favorite band, Jane’s had brought alternative to the masses. They had perfected the gritty, sardonic sound the Seattle bands came to be known for when members of Pearl Jam were still mucking about in Mother Love Bone. Jane’s had more polish and finesse though. Riding high on the success of Ritual de lo Habitual yet technically on their farewell tour, for a group of guys who, as I understand it at the time actually hated each other, well, Jane’s Addiction would of tore the roof off Devore Stadium had it had one. Go-Go dancers in gold lame body suits graced the wings, and, unlike their Seattle counterparts, Perry Farrell actually embraced the rock star persona. 

I saw them over 20 years after Lollapalooza I, and save for a few wrinkles and a different bass player, it was the same intensity, stage presence, and unabashed rock and roll.

Driving home from San Diego north on Interstate 15 after the show, my friend Mike fell asleep at the wheel. Without warning he jerked the car towards the shoulder, yelling that a mattress had fallen out of the truck (there was no truck) in front of us. We talked Mike into letting me drive (I was the only other licensed driver in the car.) I took control and continued on without incident, Mike snoozing away in the passenger seat of his mom’s Sentra. I steered us home and relished in the fact that I had just seen the best concert of my life. That and I got to drive on the freeway for the first time. 

And honestly, for a 16 year old, that was almost as exciting as the show.

Alice in Chains, Hollywood Palladium, Hollywood, CA 12/16/1992

This was probably the 3^rd or 4^th show I had seen at the Palladium. At age 17 I considered myself a seasoned pro as far as concerts went. In addition to shows at the Palladium, I’d caught gigs at the Palace, Irvine Meadows, Universal Amphitheatre and many other clubs, theatres, and stadiums throughout L.A. and Southern California.  Usually overloaded with whichever friends were along for the show, I pushed my beat-up 1970 VW to its breaking point, navigating any number of southern California freeways depending on the venue.

Supporting the album Dirt, Alice in Chains was rising fast on the new popularity of the Seattle sound—a fluke in popular music that combined some of the anti-establishment sentiments and rough edges of punk rock with a traditional 70’s hard rock sound. Evolving somewhere between punk, hard rock, and metal, it was distorted guitars, combat boots, and long hair without any of the glam: better known as Grunge.

The lights came down and a huge banner behind the stage was subsequently back-lit. It depicted a Cheshire cat perched in the branches of a tree, a malevolent grin upon its face.  Poor Alice was hanging from her neck by the feline’s tail. The twisted spin on the Lewis Carroll tale brought uproarious cheers from the crowd which escalated exponentially as the band stirred in the wings.
I managed to wiggle, squeeze, and worm my way up to the very front of the stage just as Alice in Chains came on.  It was the closest I’d ever managed to get to the stage during a concert. Mere feet from now-deceased front-man Layne Stayley throughout most of the show, I absorbed the rock and roll aura that emanated forth. I banged my head of curly locks and was the epitome of a concert-going, shirtless tattooed youth—a generic caricature of the kids you see at concert films the world over. 

Stayley was an engaging performer—at times he looked me straight in the eyes. Just inches from my face I could smell liquor and cigarettes on his breath as he belted out the tunes. I got several high-fives from him and Jerry Cantrell throughout their performance and just missed catching both a guitar pick and a drumstick that were chucked into the crowd towards the end of the show. The bean-pole behind me had a bit longer reach… dammit.

After an hour-plus set the band stepped off stage for a moment. Upon their return Stayley addressed the crowd:

“What do you guys want to hear?!”

With all my might, I screamed “Rooster! Rooster!” repeatedly. I loved that song. It wasn’t the hardest song in Alice’s repertoire by a long shot, but the insightful lyrics that mused of Layne’s dad’s time in Vietnam struck a nerve with me for some reason. 

Layne looked straight at me.

“This kid wants to hear Rooster!” The crowd roared and he nodded at Jerry Cantrell. Thus it was decided. Thus I had decided the encore at the Hollywood Palladium that night.

Damn I love rock and roll.

Ten Shows: Part III

To continue this bi-polar journey down my concert memory lane, I’ll revisit two shows from the 90’s that couldn’t be on more opposite ends of the rock and roll spectrum.

Grateful Dead, Sam Boyd Silver Bowl, Las Vegas, NV      6/26/1994

I was 9 months into my Navy tenure, stationed in San Diego, and basically, living easy. Yeah that’s right—in the military and living easy. There’s too much back story to account for exactly why I was able to surf daily, cruise Coronado on my bike, and generally fuck off most of the time, so let’s just leave it at that.

When I saw that the Dead were playing 3 nights in Vegas early that summer, well, of course I was going to go.

The initial plan was to drive all night Friday, arrive in Vegas sometime after sunrise, set up camp in the parking lot, and get a few hours of sleep before the festivities commenced. My buddy Robert and I arrived to find the parking lot secured (not opening until noon) and a battalion of police officers and sheriff’s deputies running people off the side streets, parks, empty fields, and anywhere else you might cop a squat adjacent to the stadium. Within 12 hours of arriving in Vegas, we had rented a room in town, gone to and from the stadium again (unable to score tickets for Saturday’s show) and were enjoying an enhanced version of the bright lights of Vegas.  

Fast forward to Sunday’s show.

It was Phil Lesh that coined the term “Mega-Dead” in those days. They sold out all three nights at a 50,000+ capacity stadium with thousands of people still out in the lot, unable to score tickets.  Robert and I filtered into the stadium and found our way into the grandstands, stage right, about ½ way up with a great view of the “Jerry Side.” They launched the show with a crowd-pleasing Hell in a Bucket, Bob Weir stepping into the rock star role early, working up the crowd and setting the mood for the 1^st set.

During those last few years before Jerry died, Grateful Dead shows were mostly hit and miss as far as quality goes. If Jerry was in a particularly bad slump (i.e. in a bad way on the heroin he was using) the rest of the band would ramp up and carry the show along as best they could. This was quite the opposite of the many golden eras of the band’s past, where Jerry lived up to his early moniker of Captain Trips, leading the Dead along a musical adventure while shaping and guiding the songs as his 9 fingers worked effortlessly across one of his signature guitars.

In 1994 he was a shadow of that icon. Aged well beyond his 52 years, Jerry looked like a decrepitly obese rock and roll wizard. Stooped over his guitar I imagined he could collapse in a heap at any moment.

Yet a spark of the old Jerry graced the stage Sunday night. The licks flowed and the band fell in line, Phil trading musical phrases with Jerry throughout. And as the 2^nd set segued from the compulsory drum solo, Jerry carried the band aloft into a crowd-pleasing Wheel and into Dylan’s All Along the Watchtower, closing the show with Morning Dew. Emerging back on stage a few minutes later they tore into a rousing encore of U.S. Blues.

I caught the Dead a few more times that year. Overseas in Japan when Jerry died, I felt the loss as I would a family member. The Grateful Dead were a defining experience in my life; there were many moments when I felt I could throw it all away and get on that bus for good. The Grateful Dead’s music carried me through good times and bad and were (and continue to be) the soundtrack of many significant events in my life. That show in mid-1994 is a standout among my adventures with the Grateful Dead.

Bad Religion, The Blitz, Tokyo, Japan, (exact date unknown: 11/15/96 or 11/16/96)

I was never a huge fan of Bad Religion. They have a decently- gritty punk sound and I always liked their in-your-face, irreverent logo. Yet they aren’t the first band that comes to mind when I consider quintessential acts in punk rock. Arguably Bad Religion brought about a rebirth in punk rock in the late 80’s, but I think if anything they gave the genre a more palatable sound that led to the likes of Green Day and others creating and finding success in the diet-punk niche. Whatever the discourse, Bad Religion has an elevated status in the punk genre for certain.

I had been on a 3-month deployment aboard the aircraft carrier U.S.S. Independence, and upon returning to our homeport in Japan, my squadron was ready (like every sailor on the ship) to let loose, blow off some steam, and consume as much booze as was humanly possible. Our barracks erupted into a free-for-all of drunken sailors, at, oh, 3:00 p.m. in the afternoon or so the day of our return. Just as things were really starting to get out of hand, one of our aircrew guys showed up with a handful of concert tickets.

“Who wants to see Bad Religion in Tokyo tonight?”

And with that I was off, Tokyo bound on the Sotestu Line out of Atsugi with a gang of drunken sailors.

The Japanese don’t do anything half-ass. I came to that conclusion as we approached the venue Bad Religion was playing that night- The Blitz.  Based on the look of the crowd, we could have been in L.A. or D.C., waiting to see The Germs or Minor Threat or any number of old-school punk bands. Replete with mohawks, Doc Martens, red suspenders, and ripped jeans, the Japanese had the details of punk fashion down to a science. There was enough leather in the venue to supply a dominatrix convention.

When Bad Religion took the stage, these Japanese punkers went absolutely nuts.  The mosh pit was unequivocally crazy— as intense if not more so than some of the whirling melees I’d bumped around in at punk and metal shows back in the U.S.  Elbows and knuckles abound, the stage dives also rivaled anything I had seen before. Security was surprisingly mellow: there were no warnings to kick out the occasional crowd surfer that went over the rail towards the stage—they simply shuffled them around and back into the fray.

Yet through it all, the Japanese crowd maintained their polite honor. One kid elbowed me in the pit a bit too hard—he asked if I was okay in broken English, a look of real apology on his face. I laughed and patted him on the back and went back to it.

The band put on a rapid-fire performance, the audience feeding fuel to the non-stop energy of the first note to the reverberated hiss and squelch that wrapped the encore. The show must have gone almost 2 hours, and I was exhausted and relieved as the house lights finally came up inside The Blitz. We shuffled out into the cool air and loitered amongst the slowly dispersing crowd.  A roadie or drum tech emerged from a side door of the venue with a handful of drumsticks and began handing them out. I sprinted over and got myself one, the wood flaked and frayed and chewed to near shreds: a visual demonstration just how hard these guys rocked that night.

Funny thing though, I never grew to really love Bad Religion, even after a stellar performance such as that. I have a few of their albums, but I don’t know if I would jump at the chance to see them again if they came through town. That night in Tokyo was just a perfect combination of good music and camaraderie at a unique venue in a faraway land.

If anything, Bad Religion proved to me that night that, despite many attempted burials, The Exploited-coined phrase was true: Punk’s Not Dead.

 

Ten Shows: Part II

Part II in a, I don't know, maybe 5 or 6 part blog post...? To read the original post, look over to the right over there- yeah, right there. The one that says "Ten Shows: Part I"

The Dead Weather, Crystal Ballroom, Portland, OR         7/24/2010

No, this isn’t some Grateful Dead tribute band; it’s a Jack White band. Jack White usually plays guitar. Jack White plays drums in the Dead Weather. Jack White is fucking awesome.

I just knew this show was going to be good. First off, it was at the Crystal Ballroom in downtown Portland, a beautifully reappointed dance hall replete with massive springs supporting the vast wooden floor (you can see the springs from the bar, Ringler’s, situated directly downstairs.) The floor gives slightly as you walk about the place, an odd sensation for a seemingly sound construction. If a crowd gets especially frenzied during a performance the entire place will bounce dramatically, creating an almost single entity of the audience as the crowd rolls and bounces on the mechanically enhanced floor.  Supposedly it’s the only one of its kind in the entire country.

A mediocre opener warmed the crowd up for entirely too long, and as the house lights dimmed following an even longer intermission, the crowd was eager, stomping and cheering in attempt to lull White from whatever backstage activities he was engaged.

The Dead Weather put on a show that epitomizes what a rock and roll concert is all about. Cranking out a fiery, nearly 2 hour set that failed to let up, the audience almost struggled to keep pace. It didn’t matter that I barely knew the material—I had picked up their 2^nd album, Sea of Cowards, just a week prior. It was rock and roll, and yes, I liked it. Alison Mosshart , The Dead Weather’s front-woman, aroused  the black-clad, rock star swagger of any number of her forbears. She evoked the ghosts of Morrison and Joplin as she belted out song after song with a casual, confident intensity. She cussed, she drank, she smoked, and she even spat on the stage! Wow! The way she strutted about with that microphone in hand… I think I was in love.

Jack left his perch behind the drums late in the show, the band rotating instruments thus bringing him up on guitar, much to the squealing delight of the audience. Have I mentioned Jack White is fucking awesome? Like some freak birth spawned from a coupling of Hendrix and Page, Jack White truly makes it looks easy, pounding out a dirty, bluesy racket that sounds familiar yet innovative all in the same riff. The intensity built exponentially as White brought the show its climax, a blur of sweat and wound-nickel glimmering off the body of his dime-store guitar.  I swear there were vapor trails on stage as the set wrapped up, my ears ringing in painful delight.

I stirred late the following morning, and after a cup of coffee made my way to my downstairs office and read the morning paper. I gazed upon my gloss-black Gibson Les Paul Studio, admiring its lines for a moment before lifting it from its perch upon the basement wall. I didn’t play it, but rather returned it to its hangar and went about my day.

Because really, after hearing Jack White play live, what’s the point?

The Doors of the 21^st Century, Kodak Theatre, Hollywood, CA   12/31/2003

It had become a sort of tradition in the late 90’s-early 2000’s for my wife and I—and whatever friends were game— to head to the Bay area for New Year’s Eve. It was always centered on catching some incarnation of the former members of the Grateful Dead at places like The Warfield or the Henry J. Kaiser arena. When I saw that Ray Manzarek and Robby Krieger were doing a sort of Doors reincarnation/tribute for New Year’s with none other than Ian Astbury of The Cult on vocals, well, shit, how could we miss an opportunity like that?

Plus the show was in Hollywood—a mere 20-30 minute drive (depending on traffic of course) from behind The Orange Curtain.

Thus we decided to celebrate that New Year in true L.A. style, reserving a decadent room at the Renaissance Hotel adjacent to the Kodak (now Dolby) theatre in downtown Hollywood. It’s that little place where they do the Academy Awards and whatnot. Of course dropping my ’97 Civic with a valet in front of one of the more posh hotels in Hollywood was a bit… humiliating, but I guess in a town as fake as L.A., really, who gives a crap?

After some pre-game drinks in the lobby and a stroll around the Hollywood and Highland Center we headed to the show. The Kodak is a fabulous (and I mean fabulous) theatre; television doesn’t do it justice. The architecture, appointments, and layout of the place make for a great concert experience and there’s literally not a bad seat in the house.  Even in the cheap seats up near the rafters and belfry the sound and view is great.

Opening with a somewhat-lazy version of Peace Frog, the Doors of the 21^st Century tore through a respectably long set of the band’s classics, even playing the album L.A. Woman from top to bottom, which comprised over 1/3 of the show. Ian Astbury did his best to evoke the Lizard King that night, taunting the audience at times (“C’mon L.A.! This is your band!”) to discussing drugs (“More cocaine for the gentleman in the front row!”) to outright vulgar tirades which included replacing a key word in a line from Backdoor Man with an intimate part of the female anatomy. It went something like:  “I’ll eat more (fill in the blank) any man ever seen!” Because, you know, he’s a backdoor man.

At times Ian tried just a little too hard, blowing out his voice and rasping through a good portion of the set. Regardless, they brought down the house in epic style, ringing in 2004 and what ended up being our last year in California. Too many Heinekens later I was more than happy to have dropped such a fair sum of money on the hotel next door.

I was saddened to learn of Ray Manzarek’s passing just a few weeks ago.  But you know what they say about rock n’ roll heaven: they have a hell of a band.

Ten Shows: Part I

For the next few posts I’m going to engage another aspect of my music experience through the years: concerts.

A smattering of memory lurks about from the first show I ever attended: The Beach Boys at Universal Amphitheater in Hollywood, CA. I was with my parents and older sister and likely 8 or 9 years old at the time. I recall beach balls being bounced about throughout most of the show and what may have been an inebriated Brian Wilson saying he “forgot the goddamn words” to a song he was trying to pound out on the piano. It also may have been the first time I smelled marijuana—I vaguely remember a group in front of us sharing (what I thought at the time was) a cigarette, my parents likely looking on in dismay as an unfamiliar scent wafted about.  

Overall a pretty respectable experience for my first concert.  

How many shows have I seen since? I have no idea. I kept track for many years, collecting ticket stubs and making scrap books, happy to shell out $20-$30 on a shirt to add to my ever-expanding collection. Concerts were a package deal in my teens and twenties—you partied in the parking lot, you saw the show, you got a shirt, and in rare cases you could score a recording of the gig at some point to preserve the memory for a lifetime. 

The older I got the less important the mementos and parking lot-partying became. Bordering on snobbery now, I am fairly particular about the shows I’ll attend. Put simply some artist’s whose albums I enjoy are just not all that great of a live act. Sure, the concert “experience” is just that, an experience, but I just won't cough up $30-$100+ on a band that has some great albums but puts on a so-so live show. 

Segue to my subject—the 10 best concerts I’ve attended. I’m going to blend some criteria (performance, overall experience, etc.) for this one due to cloudy memories and the less-discerning ear of my youth. I don’t think I knew a bad performance from good one as a teen, thus what I thought was an amazing performance by, say, Pearl Jam at Lollapalooza in 1992 may have been mediocre at best. Regardless, a great time at a concert is just that, even if performance-wise a band was lacking.

I’m also going to diverge from my usual modus operandi and split this list up over several posts to keep from losing those of the shorter attention span. I know how it goes...

 Again, in no particular order, although I will save the best few for last:

Phil Lesh & Friends/Bob Dylan & his Band—Ventura County Fairgrounds, CA 6/30/2000

This was the 2^nd show of a run of concerts I hit with my wife and some friends in the summer of 2000. Making good money and having no kids yet, we were free to indulge in impromptu just about anything back in those days. With a couple of weeks of vacation to burn, we drove up and down the state of California, camping, partying, and doing what all twenty-somethings should get an opportunity to do.

 We had hit the first of two Lesh/Dylan shows in Irvine and puttered up Pacific Coast Highway in my ’73 VW bus to catch them in Ventura. A literal caravan of vehicles with a cadre of friends snaked its way up the California coast from L.A., one in our entourage picking up a few hitchhikers near Rincon as we made for a campground not far from the concert venue at the county fairgrounds in Ventura. 

After setting up camp, everyone piled into my van and we headed to Seaside Park.

Sufficiently primed in the parking lot after partaking in the usual pre-show reverie, we headed into the venue. The place was certainly more suited to hosting a demolition derby than a rock concert. The stage sat in the middle of a dirt rodeo/race track surrounded by a rickety grandstand. A plume of dust kicked up as a hoard of Deadheads filtered down towards the stage. 

Dylan went on well before sundown and delivered a respectable set, actually annunciating more than he’s known to and picking mostly well-known songs from a hit-rich repertoire while mixing in just a bit of newer and more obscure material.

 The show overall was fantastic—Phil jammed well into the late hours, noodling away and sounding fluid and comfortable with his then-incarnation of ‘Friends.’ The music was cerebral and psychedelic, hitting song after song from the Grateful Dead’s vast catalog. Phil’s band took the tunes to a level that, at times, sounded like a reborn version of the Dead circa 1969.  Much to everyone's surprise, an Amtrak train roared past outside the grounds just behind the stage sometime during Phil's set, adding an exceptionally surreal, if not storybook quality to the concert. If only they had been playing Casey Jones… 

After the show we crammed back into the bus and I eased it slowly back towards the oceanfront campground. Working my way through the finicky gears we buzzed along, covering the short distance without incident only to find the entrance to the campground blocked and locked. Apparently (obviously) no one noticed the overly-conspicuous sign posted both inside and outside the campground that stated no entry after 11:00 p.m. Shit. 

Yet the exit was unfettered save for a row of those tire-puncturing retractable teeth that of course had their business-end facing our direction.  Not to be put out so easily, we managed to strategically jam branches and rocks into the teeth and depress them just enough so that I was able to squeeze two of the VW’s wheels along the non-booby-trapped edge of the exit while the others rolled harmlessly over a pile of rocks and sticks. 

Much to our neighboring camper’s displeasure, victory (and a roaring campfire and plenty more booze) was ours. 

Top 10 Albums of the 90's -or- What I Listened to When I Wasn't Listening to the Grateful Dead

The 90’s are absolutely a defining yet bi-polar era in regards to my taste in music. I graduated from high school in 1993, so it was obviously a key time for me  as far as music goes—being full of all that teenage angst and whatnot. But I was based in Japan with the military from October of 1994 until the late summer of 1997, and of those roughly 3 years out of country I spent nearly 2 of them deployed aboard an aircraft carrier. There was no internet access (on land or at sea,) and in fact the World Wide Web was really just a novelty to me at that point—something I had heard about and saw in ports like Singapore and Hong Kong a handful of times. Access to new music and the verities of American pop-culture were limited to magazines and what little American television programming we could get in Japan. My point being, I didn’t have the daily MTV-level of exposure during those years.

Not that it would have mattered. By 1993 or 1994 I was a wholly-absorbed Deadhead. I shunned most new music in favor of collecting (via U.S. mail; on cassette) bootlegs of the latest Grateful Dead shows in the U.S. I drove my roommates absolutely bonkers with hour upon hour of Garcia-driven noodling.  Being a deadhead in the military was a bit incongruous to say the least. Hell, I could write a book about that subject actually… oh wait I did.

But I digress. Unlike my 80’s list, most of these albums I actually bought brand new and loved in the 90’s. It’s heavy on early 90’s material due to the aforementioned Dead Zone I was in for many years. It’s also heavy on hard rock/metal. That said there are a few 90’s gems in there I came to appreciate in the subsequent decades of the new millennium. So here you have it. In no particular order:

Jane’s Addiction – Ritual de lo Habitual*                             

Jane’s is the only artist that appears on both my 80’s and 90’s lists, and Ritual is one of my favorite albums of all time—top 10 for sure and possibly top 5 depending on my mood. I remember listening to Ritual over and over again my sophomore year in high school. Entranced by the quiet intricacies and haunting melodies of songs like Three Days, and absolutely awestruck over the power and ferocity of the opener, Stop, Ritual is just a solid, diverse, well-produced album; everything on it is amazing. *Except Been Caught Stealing that is. I feel like that song was some sort of truck stop bathroom abortion that managed to cling to its momma’s leg. How it was written or remained on the album I can only speculate. The dog barking? WTF is that? I think I disliked that song even more due to its popularity at the time. I mean, of all the songs on that album…? Really…? The rest of the album thankfully smothers it.

Skinny Puppy— Too Dark Park 

Too dark what, you ask? Sounding more like a science fiction horror movie soundtrack than a conventional album, Too Dark Park is a multilayered viscera cake, full of blood-curdling gravelly vocals, hypnotically throbbing drum tracks, and a plethora of horror film dialogue samples all slathered together with an industrial array of synthesized noise that, at times, surprises you with a buried, finger-snapping hook. Honestly I think the reason I loved this album so much is because my mom hated it so much.

Phish—A Live One          

I bought this album while on liberty in Dubai in the United Arab Emirates. I had heard of Phish and I knew a lot of Deadheads were getting hip to them, yet it was coincidence that I found this album just a month after Jerry Garcia died. Among Deadheads there’s a contingent that hates Phish—I didn’t know this until years later nor did I ever get why there was such a vehement dislike of the band by some heads, but as those first few notes of Bouncing Around the Room bounced around the bar (I had talked the waitress into playing a few tracks) I was immediately hooked on Phish. I never came to love them as much as the Dead, but Phish is an amazingly talented band, Trey Anastasio being one of the greatest rock guitarists of our time.

Pantera—Vulgar Display of Power          

This album is just pure adrenaline-fueled aggression funneled through a hardcore metal band from Texas. Although I didn’t appreciate it until years after I had bought it, the production quality on this album is absolutely stellar. Dimebag Darrell is one of those guitar players that is (or was) immediately recognizable by tone and playing style—those crunchy chorus riffs often imitated but never matched. Cruising about in the scalding summertime heat of Hemet, California in my 1970 VW, I used crank that album as loud as the VW’s tinny little speakers could go. Distorted and trebly it was in the soundtrack of my summer in 1992.

Alice in Chains—Dirt     

Another summer of ’92 soundtrack (that was a great summer by the way,) Dirt, is Alice in Chains at their best. The album has more substance and better songwriting than the previous release yet retains the raw, hard rock sound that was lost on subsequent albums—all good albums mind you, Dirt just stands far above the rest. Layne Staley’s drug-inspired lyrics are blatantly foreshadowing given the unsurprising circumstances of his death.

Snoop Doggy Dogg—Doggy Style            

This will likely surprise those of you that actually know me. I never cared much for rap in the 90’s. I did have a Run DMC tape and Licensed to Ill in the 80’s, but as my listening tastes gravitated towards alternative music I was one of those people that said things like “you can’t have ‘crap’ without ‘rap.’” I ended up with an MP3 of Doggy Style about 5 or 6 years ago and I love it. I don’t know why I love it—it’s vulgar, immature, and misogynistic. It glorifies murder, drugs, and that whole gangsta lifestyle, but damn it’s got good hooks.

Rage Against the Machine—Rage Against the Machine                

I was stationed in San Diego in early 1994 when I picked up this album. I had actually seen Rage play for about 10 minutes on the side-stage at Lollapalooza II at Irvine Meadows in ’92 (have I mentioned the summer of 1992 was a good one? Yeah…) I don’t remember them making a particular impact on me then, but when I bought the album… Holy. Shit. I remember reading the liner notes, and there was something to the affect that “no synthesizers were used, etc. etc.” Tom Morello made all that funky noise with just a guitar? Rage was also a pioneer in incorporating rap and hip hop into metal and arguably spawned a genre.

Tom Petty—Wildflowers             

Tom Petty has never been one to break ground in the music world. The songs he and the Heartbreakers compose are not revolutionary by any stretch and they fit nicely into a sort of adult contemporary/classic rock radio genre while appealing to a younger crowd (at least in the late 80’s/early 90’s.) So why is there a Petty album on my list? And why this particular album? Petty may have not been groundbreaking, but his song-craft is solid, more so when he leaves the Heartbreakers behind. Every song on Wildflowers is superbly written and exquisitely produced. Revolving around and interweaving themes of love, lust, alienation, and, well, life, the content of the album is easy to relate to while being listenable and enjoyable in every regard.  

Cake—Fashion Nugget                

The first time I heard The Distance, I remember thinking, “what kind of Jock Jams crap is this?” My opinion of the song was certainly tainted due to the fact that the first time I heard it I was at sea, trying to get some sleep whilst my berthing-mates unwound playing spades and cranking various albums of which I had no desire to listen. 10 or so years later the album found its way into my possession and I realized what an absolutely superb album Fashion Nugget is. I mentioned on my 80’s post I’m a sucker for rock songs with non-traditional time-signatures. Nugget has that. And they have a trumpet (or is that a fugal horn?) And they do the raddest freakin’ cover of a Gloria Gaynor song I have ever heard. Okay, it’s the only cover of a Gloria Gaynor song I’ve ever heard but you get the picture.  

White Zombie—Route 666; Devil Music Vol. I    

For the last album on my list (even though it is in no particular order) I take it back to my High School days. This is the only White Zombie album I own or care to own. It’s a blend of fat guitar riffs, a driving rhythm section, and kitschy horror-movie samples. This is a well-crafted metal album that makes fine use of clean studio production and vivid songwriting imagery while keeping the old head-a-banging the entire time. My favorite sample: “do you have to open graves to find girls to fall in love with?” I’ve wondered that myself sometimes…

I’ll throw in a few honorable mentions this time:

Depeche Mode—Violator          

They continued the trends of Black Celebration and Music for the Masses with Violator. Great production and great songwriting.

Temple of the Dog—Temple of the Dog               

Grunge era Seattle super-group with Chris Cornell and Eddie Vedder on vocals? What more can I say?

The Black Crowes—The Southern Music and Harmony Companion         

I love this album for the same reasons I love Wildflowers.

Metallica—Metallica (the black album) Leaving any hint of sophomoric production quality behind, Enter Sandman is probably one of the best opening tracks for a metal album ever.

The Displaced Commuter

It may have been George Carlin that said “anyone who drives slower than you is an idiot; anyone who drives faster than you is a maniac.” It’s funny, because, well, it’s true. Like most Americans that dwell in city or suburb, I commute to work. Adding to the world’s environmental woes, I travel in a non-fuel-efficient, 15 year-old pickup along I-5 (or “The 5” to keep true to my Southern California vernacular.) I make this commute 4 or 5 days a week, from the Portland suburb of Tigard to the not-quite-Portland suburb of Wilsonville.  From house to freeway to high-tech industrial campus, I pass any number of bus stops and rail stations that could be waypoints in my journey from home to work. But no, like many Americans, I drive, and I drive alone.

My alter-ego as a commuter started at age 22. I say alter-ego because let’s face it—we’re all different people behind the wheel. The kind-hearted grandfather boils with rage and flips off the overly-cautious Asian-American software engineer because of a slow right turn. The Asian scowls back, yelling profanities as grandpa leaves a smoking trail of rubber down the otherwise quiet parkway. If they had met in a bank line or grocery check-out they might have made small talk about the weather or gas prices. But no, out here on the roads, it’s kill or be killed.

It’s a strange phenomenon, really. What is it about sitting behind the wheel that makes us impervious to the outside world? Not only will we flip people off and shout random insults but we’ll pick our nose and sing at the top of our lungs. Imagine doing that in the bank or a convenience store: “Sweeeeet Caroline!!” erupting behind you at 7-11 as a middle-age mother of two digs into her nose with gusto, rooting around to capture an elusive snot-goblin. And imagine your continued surprise if she started belittling you for taking a bit too long to punch in your pin number or decide on a brand of cigarettes. The truth is, our behavior behind the wheel is often deplorable.

I’m no exception. I drive well over the speed limit. I tailgate in the fast-lane (it’s the fast-lane! Move it!) I’ll squeeze to the far-right lane between two cars 1/16^th of a mile before my exit. I’d like to think I have an excuse though—I learned to commute in Southern California. And more specifically, I cut my teeth driving between Orange County and Long Beach on the most infamous of L.A.-area freeways: The 405.

If you’ve never lived in the L.A. area you likely have the misconception that people there drive like shit. Not true. Yes, L.A. drivers are aggressive. Sure, they don’t slow down in the right lane of the freeway to let you merge, and god-forbid you do any less than 75 or 80 MPH in the fast lane. But the thing is, L.A. drivers know how to get where they are going with the most efficient use of time, space, and conditions. If that means cutting you off, riding your ass, or swerving across five lanes of traffic mere feet before an exit—well, it is what it is: places to go, people to see, and limited time to do it. Like a monstrous mechanical ballet of grand proportions, the L.A. freeways buzz along, bumper to bumper at speeds of 80 MPH and faster.

 Unless it rains. Then all hell breaks loose. That’s another post altogether.

Segue to my move to Oregon. My first trip to Portland I rented a car at PDX and did the 205 south/84 west/5 south routine to the city. I passed car after car, weaving through the slow-moving traffic wondering all the while what was going on. Is there a cop somewhere? Do these people know something I don’t? And that’s when I saw it as I dropped down through the 84 to 5/405 interchange in Northeast Portland:

SPEED LIMIT 50 MPH

“Whhhaaaaaattt???”

That’s the school-zone limit in most Southern California cities.

Much to my surprise people were not only abiding by it, they were even driving under the posted limit. I mean, really? Driving under the speed limit? Preposterous!

Portland is a great place to call home. People are proud of this city and region and I often find myself touting its exceptional qualities to my friends and family that don’t live here. It has so much to offer from outdoor activities and a thriving food scene to a unique (albeit sometimes pretentious) urban culture. I’ve been here for over 8 years and have no plans to move in the near or distant future. Perhaps a home on the coast someday, but I’m in the Pacific Northwest for good.

I’m sorry though, many of you Portlanders drive like shit.

And notice I didn’t say “you Portlanders drive like shit.” No, not everyone here drives like a senior citizen on Sunday afternoon, but a surprising percentage of you do. Overly cautious and polite to the point of being hazardous, your driving irks my Californian commuter sensibility to its core.

You don’t slow down to let someone merge! Those cars had better be going freeway speed by the time they get on the freeway! And you use every last bit of what’s left of that “right lane ends” space before trying to merge over, and don’t you dare try and change lanes into the backed up traffic in the next lane when there’s a good ½ a mile of clear freeway beckoning you forth. What? Do you think you’re cutting? You folks that drive the 405 to 5 south interchange headed out of the city know exactly what I’m talking about.

How many times have I seen a vehicle stopped, motioning for some idiot, jaywalking pedestrian in 4 lanes of busy traffic with no crosswalk to “go ahead, go ahead” as cars hurtle by in either direction? Are you kidding me?

I suppose in a case like that I should be resigned to let that whole “survival of the fittest” thing run its course.

                But again, the speed limit—it’s merely a suggestion. It’s bad enough the interstate limits are 65 and most of the freeways in the city are set to a molasses-like 50. The average cop will tell you you’ll never get a ticket for going 5-over on surface streets and up to 10-over on the freeway. And unless there’s an inch of water on the road, a locust swarm, or Mt Hood is spewing forth a plume of lava and ash that has blanketed every road in the city, you never, ever, drive under the speed limit.

Portland, I do love much about you. Sure, the rain gets old come April (and maddening come July,) and I could do without so many hipsters and fixed-gear bicyclists (my truck will win you know,) but really, I do adore you, City of Roses.

 I just wish you’d learn how to drive.