Monday, November 08, 2004
The Fifth
On Sunday, November 7th, 2004, 7:30 p.m. (about) at The Quest in Minneapolis, MN, USA, Bad Religion blew my mind to pieces. Literally, I was left speechless and without a thought worthy of repeating for at least three hours while I tried to digest what just transpired.
Bad Religion entered my life eight years ago. The first album I heard was Stranger Than Fiction. I loved them right away. Then I heard No Control and Bad Religion became the Greatest Band Ever. Period. A smart punk band, socially, politically, culturally, and globally aware, with words to share and ridiculous music to accompany them, they exist as gods in many circles, including my own.
I had only seen BR once before Sunday, and that was at Warped Tour, so it doesn't really count, for a few reasons. 1) It was light outside. Music is better in the dark, don't ask why, it just is. Think about the places in which you listen to music: bars, concerts, churches, bedrooms - all dark most of the time. Church sucks. 2) They only get 30-45 minutes to play. In sexual terms, it is the equivalent of a blow job - it is still good, and really fun, but it's not the real deal. The real deal is a concert. The real deal is sex. The terms for other kinds of sex have to be modified so we know what kind of sex we are talking about, oral, anal, yada, yada, yada, but the real deal is just sex. Oral Sex is Warped Tour. Sometimes you prefer the blow job to the real deal, but not with someone you really like. I really like BR. The Bouncing Souls are a good Warped Tour band for me, something quick and pleasurable, then we move on. But I need to lay BR. I think all types of sex should be mandatory capatal letters, like a proper name - Oral Sex, as opposed to oral sex. Note to Deets: Stay focused on the subject at hand. So tonight I was graduating from oral to the real deal (I know you could call it vaginal sex, but who the hell does that? Just go with the analogy; it works), my BR cherry was about to be obliterated. Oh how I love obliteration. One more self-interest commentary note on something I have just written: "Oh how I love obliteration." is one of the better sentences I have ever written.
The Concert. First the basics that you need to know, the organs of the sex.
My company: The Geoff, Wolff, Josh, Johnson, and Ben Rowengartner. (Ben's last name was intentionally butchered by all in many different ways 'cause no one really knew him well and he was late.)
Opening Band: Rise Against, a Fat Wreck Chords band. Not a bad band, but far from a good band. I've heard much worse at punk shows. There are five distinct levels of punk bands. I'll get into that later, along with the criteria for the perfect movie. Standing by the bar with the dudes and listening to Rise Against, I asked this question between screams from the singer, "What is the worst punk band you have ever seen in concert?" As often happens, it was another "Soliloquy Moment," as my buddy Rizz calls them, for me, where I just speak to some people who offer nothing in return. I gave my two cents, calling Billy Talent the worst band I have ever heard. I would pay 20 bucks not to see them again.
Pre-Show Alcohol Consumption: Two Red Bull-Vodkas.
Rise Against left the stage, everyone cheered for different reasons. They announced they would be back in Mpls headlining a tour. If they are headlining, it ought to be a hell of a show.
This is when the pre-show, set-yourself-up-to-get-a-good-spot-to-stand jockeying begins. My favorite place to stand is directly in front of the sound board. It is loud, as if the entire place isn't loud enough, and you get to have something lean against. I'm lazy. I decided to move up for this one. This wasn't going to be just another show, just something entertaining to do. It was a spiritual and intellectual binge. And I love binging, booze, food, sleep, whatever. Back to standing space, I headed for my second favorite spot. At punk shows in the Midwest, you generally have two different "active participation" sections. Everyone at a show who is clapping, singing, fist-pumping is actively participating, but let's limit the definition of active participation in this case to mean "moving the feet more than necessary." Right in front of the stage and the security dudes, you have the quasi-mosh pit, surge forward section, where people jam themselves into each other and into the railing like sperm trying to escape the resevoir tip of a condom. It is a good place to exchange sweat with people. I retired from this section at a relatively young age, 17, citing back injuries. The second active participation section is the circle pit, which Midwesterners cannot operate like the Californian originators can. Punk bands here make note of this time and time again. Moshing, while being a new thing in music (25 years old maybe, max), is grounded in barbaric, yet chivalrous, etiquette. Even the most anarchic franchises have guidelines, including the Most Pit. But in discussing guidelines and etiquette, we have to first discuss goals. What are the goals of moshing? To bust your ass to bust somebody else's in the name of a band for whom you are mutually fond. Ok, done and done. The Mosh Pit: 1) If someone falls down, stop and pick them up. 2) If someone is picking someone up, stop and help them. 3) If you find someone's shoe, hold it up in the air so they can see and claim it. 4) Be rough and violent, but don't get pissed. 5) If you do get pissed, don't lash out in anger and use the Mosh Pit as a medium to seek revenge on someone. 6) Help out the small girls and little kids who make the ill-advised decision to go in there, make space for them, give 'em a break. 7) If someone wants out, get 'em out, clear a path. Now on to circle pits: I hate them, don't understand them, and will never participate in them. It is a bunch of dudes running in circles and slamming into anyone in their path. This is for the kids who want the experience of playing football but never wanted to put the time into going to practice in high school. There is a third punk rock concert event that happens at every show, the crowd surf. If you crowd surf near me, get ready to get your ass dragged down. I hate crowd surfing. You get kicked in the head enough times it rubs you the not right way. Feet don't belong six feet above the ground unless you are doing some weird sex thing in your bedroom. Also, wallet snatching from crowd surfers is not going to get you bitched at by me. But if a girl comes by wearing a skirt, you can't..., well, fuck it, go ahead and do it, she had it coming. So, anyway, my second favorite spot at a concert, is right between to the two pits. I'm close enough to warrant moving away from the soundboard, but in a spot where I can avoid most shirtless, sweaty, 250 pound men, not that I don't love them. Another thing about going to concerts, you come in a group, but usually end up alone; it is always better to rock out next to a friend. You can say a lot to each other by just making eye contact.
Important note: Playlist predictions and songs you want to hear, a must discussion before a show. The Geoff was the most accurate, saying that Sinister Rouge would be the first song played, but it was too obvious to call, so he called No Control. No Control was third. I had the greatest near miraculous prediction of all time. Sorry, that was a bit too hyperbolic. This happening would have been crazier than Nader winning the election. I said I wanted to hear Entropy. Wolff agreed that it would be cool. Adam said there was a zero percent chance of them playing that song. This story will be finished later. Passive voice right there, shit.
The concert started with Sinister Rouge and I got goosebumps on top of my goosebumps. I didn't know what to do. Only four times in my life have I lost myself so completely that I had no idea what to do with my emotions. This was the fifth. I will get to the others later, along with the perfect movie criteria and five levels of punks bands. I was gone. It's hard to describe. If you have a better way to do it, let me know in the comments on this thing. It took me four songs to regain consciousness. Then an overwhelming feeling of comfort and "being at home" came over me, contentness combined with marvel combined with adrenaline combined with extaticness. Crazy.
Part II of my BR concert story comes later today.
Until then.
Bad Religion entered my life eight years ago. The first album I heard was Stranger Than Fiction. I loved them right away. Then I heard No Control and Bad Religion became the Greatest Band Ever. Period. A smart punk band, socially, politically, culturally, and globally aware, with words to share and ridiculous music to accompany them, they exist as gods in many circles, including my own.
I had only seen BR once before Sunday, and that was at Warped Tour, so it doesn't really count, for a few reasons. 1) It was light outside. Music is better in the dark, don't ask why, it just is. Think about the places in which you listen to music: bars, concerts, churches, bedrooms - all dark most of the time. Church sucks. 2) They only get 30-45 minutes to play. In sexual terms, it is the equivalent of a blow job - it is still good, and really fun, but it's not the real deal. The real deal is a concert. The real deal is sex. The terms for other kinds of sex have to be modified so we know what kind of sex we are talking about, oral, anal, yada, yada, yada, but the real deal is just sex. Oral Sex is Warped Tour. Sometimes you prefer the blow job to the real deal, but not with someone you really like. I really like BR. The Bouncing Souls are a good Warped Tour band for me, something quick and pleasurable, then we move on. But I need to lay BR. I think all types of sex should be mandatory capatal letters, like a proper name - Oral Sex, as opposed to oral sex. Note to Deets: Stay focused on the subject at hand. So tonight I was graduating from oral to the real deal (I know you could call it vaginal sex, but who the hell does that? Just go with the analogy; it works), my BR cherry was about to be obliterated. Oh how I love obliteration. One more self-interest commentary note on something I have just written: "Oh how I love obliteration." is one of the better sentences I have ever written.
The Concert. First the basics that you need to know, the organs of the sex.
My company: The Geoff, Wolff, Josh, Johnson, and Ben Rowengartner. (Ben's last name was intentionally butchered by all in many different ways 'cause no one really knew him well and he was late.)
Opening Band: Rise Against, a Fat Wreck Chords band. Not a bad band, but far from a good band. I've heard much worse at punk shows. There are five distinct levels of punk bands. I'll get into that later, along with the criteria for the perfect movie. Standing by the bar with the dudes and listening to Rise Against, I asked this question between screams from the singer, "What is the worst punk band you have ever seen in concert?" As often happens, it was another "Soliloquy Moment," as my buddy Rizz calls them, for me, where I just speak to some people who offer nothing in return. I gave my two cents, calling Billy Talent the worst band I have ever heard. I would pay 20 bucks not to see them again.
Pre-Show Alcohol Consumption: Two Red Bull-Vodkas.
Rise Against left the stage, everyone cheered for different reasons. They announced they would be back in Mpls headlining a tour. If they are headlining, it ought to be a hell of a show.
This is when the pre-show, set-yourself-up-to-get-a-good-spot-to-stand jockeying begins. My favorite place to stand is directly in front of the sound board. It is loud, as if the entire place isn't loud enough, and you get to have something lean against. I'm lazy. I decided to move up for this one. This wasn't going to be just another show, just something entertaining to do. It was a spiritual and intellectual binge. And I love binging, booze, food, sleep, whatever. Back to standing space, I headed for my second favorite spot. At punk shows in the Midwest, you generally have two different "active participation" sections. Everyone at a show who is clapping, singing, fist-pumping is actively participating, but let's limit the definition of active participation in this case to mean "moving the feet more than necessary." Right in front of the stage and the security dudes, you have the quasi-mosh pit, surge forward section, where people jam themselves into each other and into the railing like sperm trying to escape the resevoir tip of a condom. It is a good place to exchange sweat with people. I retired from this section at a relatively young age, 17, citing back injuries. The second active participation section is the circle pit, which Midwesterners cannot operate like the Californian originators can. Punk bands here make note of this time and time again. Moshing, while being a new thing in music (25 years old maybe, max), is grounded in barbaric, yet chivalrous, etiquette. Even the most anarchic franchises have guidelines, including the Most Pit. But in discussing guidelines and etiquette, we have to first discuss goals. What are the goals of moshing? To bust your ass to bust somebody else's in the name of a band for whom you are mutually fond. Ok, done and done. The Mosh Pit: 1) If someone falls down, stop and pick them up. 2) If someone is picking someone up, stop and help them. 3) If you find someone's shoe, hold it up in the air so they can see and claim it. 4) Be rough and violent, but don't get pissed. 5) If you do get pissed, don't lash out in anger and use the Mosh Pit as a medium to seek revenge on someone. 6) Help out the small girls and little kids who make the ill-advised decision to go in there, make space for them, give 'em a break. 7) If someone wants out, get 'em out, clear a path. Now on to circle pits: I hate them, don't understand them, and will never participate in them. It is a bunch of dudes running in circles and slamming into anyone in their path. This is for the kids who want the experience of playing football but never wanted to put the time into going to practice in high school. There is a third punk rock concert event that happens at every show, the crowd surf. If you crowd surf near me, get ready to get your ass dragged down. I hate crowd surfing. You get kicked in the head enough times it rubs you the not right way. Feet don't belong six feet above the ground unless you are doing some weird sex thing in your bedroom. Also, wallet snatching from crowd surfers is not going to get you bitched at by me. But if a girl comes by wearing a skirt, you can't..., well, fuck it, go ahead and do it, she had it coming. So, anyway, my second favorite spot at a concert, is right between to the two pits. I'm close enough to warrant moving away from the soundboard, but in a spot where I can avoid most shirtless, sweaty, 250 pound men, not that I don't love them. Another thing about going to concerts, you come in a group, but usually end up alone; it is always better to rock out next to a friend. You can say a lot to each other by just making eye contact.
Important note: Playlist predictions and songs you want to hear, a must discussion before a show. The Geoff was the most accurate, saying that Sinister Rouge would be the first song played, but it was too obvious to call, so he called No Control. No Control was third. I had the greatest near miraculous prediction of all time. Sorry, that was a bit too hyperbolic. This happening would have been crazier than Nader winning the election. I said I wanted to hear Entropy. Wolff agreed that it would be cool. Adam said there was a zero percent chance of them playing that song. This story will be finished later. Passive voice right there, shit.
The concert started with Sinister Rouge and I got goosebumps on top of my goosebumps. I didn't know what to do. Only four times in my life have I lost myself so completely that I had no idea what to do with my emotions. This was the fifth. I will get to the others later, along with the perfect movie criteria and five levels of punks bands. I was gone. It's hard to describe. If you have a better way to do it, let me know in the comments on this thing. It took me four songs to regain consciousness. Then an overwhelming feeling of comfort and "being at home" came over me, contentness combined with marvel combined with adrenaline combined with extaticness. Crazy.
Part II of my BR concert story comes later today.
Until then.
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