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 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.