Traffic wasn't bad and Ed bought dinner at The Olive Garden since we were early.
Instead of a number, they handed Ed a vibrating coaster that would buzz when his table was ready.
We had a pleasant meal and decent service from the skinny airhead typical Cali blonde.
I wasn't as shocked as Ed was that she had never heard of Primus; but I was definitely shocked at all the young staff at the place that seemed WAY to conservative for their age.
As we slipped into the Stratus, we continued listening to the Wiltern show that Ed bought off PrimusLive.
That night, they had no opener and played “Sailing the Seas of Cheese” all the way through the last set.
Much fun was had at that small and friendly venue...
But last night's assignment was to be very different.
Soon we arrived at the Nazi Wireless Amphitheater.
This was the place where they were to kick off the Hallucino-Genetics Tour.
Pulling in to the parking lot, I decided to take a Hydrocodone in the car rather than try to get it past the gauntlet of yellow-jackets... Prescription or not.
Some twelve-year old kid was waving in traffic, and it was quickly apparent why:
Real cops were roaming the lot, busting anyone and everyone they could find with previously bought alcohol and illicit drugs.
They were swarmed around two big guys at a dark blue pickup and a fucking six-pack.
All these cops were young guys that you could tell were punks in High School just looking to get back at society.
I hope they finally feel like their lives are worth something having busted people at a concert for marijuana and Lite-Ice.
We shuffled uphill to the first line of Event Staff.
On the way, a young lady asked us “You guys don't have any cameras, do you?”
I'm wearing a skin-tight shirt and equally tight cutoff slacks with my German Tanker Boots (all black... what a surprise), so I said “Where would I keep it?” and invited her to do a strip-search.
I kept moving the whole time not wanting to have to see the look on her face.
Then we reached the frisk area.
I emptied my pockets and (since I don't carry a wallet) the older brother doing the search said “I don't want your money”.
It was just wadded up with my ID and my Sharpie.
“I can't let you bring that pen in.” he told me and so I dropped it in the can with all the other contraband saying “Damn, no chance for an autograph huh, yo?”
Both the guards agreed that it was a stupid rule, along with the one about cameras.
They didn't seem to be bothered too much by camera-phones.
As we wandered up the long trail toward the the restrooms and booths, I noticed the perfect place to wander in unnoticed and well armed.
Such is life.
Once the on the grounds, we were immediately assaulted by every sort of corporate panderer there was.
“Sign up to win a $3,000 shopping spree at Best Buy?”
My response: “More likely I'll win free junk-mail and spam in my e-mail box.”
I did take a moment to notice that they had plenty of PENS at those sign-up booths.
Message to the Operators at the Verizon Wireless Amphitheater: You have shit for brains. End message.
Lucky for my pallet, Etanna got a check from the School District and gave me some cash for the night.
Equally lucky was the fact that they had Sierra Nevada.
It's not that I'm joining the boycott of Coors; it's just that I can't drink that beer-flavored water anyway.
Nevada has a higher alcohol content and when added with the better flavor, it has to be my drink of choice.
I get up to the front of the line and ask for my brew. The dude pouring it loudly declares “Ten Pesos!”
Grumbles from behind me and retort “Hey... I didn't buy the tickets, so I gotta buy the booze.”
Mr. “Where's the V.I.P. area?“ behind me was one of the grumblers.
Funny thing... He went around to the VIP parking ahead of us when we went into regular... And he came in behind us onto the trail that went up to the grounds.
The server handing my change back looked at the guy and said (even louder) “HE's not whining!”
Ed returned from the wazzer, and we found a bench to chill at.
We started reminiscing about our very first concert... Which was at that very spot when it was known as Irvine Meadows and Iron Maiden played on the “Fear of the Dark” tour just before the break-up so long ago.
Ed started reminding me of when he saw Primus with Brian Dell.
They were standing around like shitholes, waiting for everyone else to leave so they could get out of the parking-lot without a fight. They spied a few other shitholes doing the same thing and realized that those shitholes were carrying equiptment... It was the band... Les, Herb, and Larry.
Brian would have gotten an autograph if he'd had a pen.
Just as Ed is getting to that point, he looks over and says “Hey... That guy looks like Brian Dell.”
I said, “Dude... That IS Brian Dell!“
It was he.
You cannot EVER miss that man in a crowd, for he has no chin.
We started talking about days gone by, marriage, and kids.
Blah blah blah.
The conversation basically ended with consent that we need to jam together again.
Yours truly has resigned to being the primadonna singer... If it ever happens.
Now... Here's where I have to juxtapose for a moment.
Sam is one of the best white guys you're ever heard on the drums.
No shit.
The man is damned good to amazing.
He can play the fuck out of a set, and he's studied harder than anyone else I know at any particular craft.
But, you see...
He has a problem:
He has no fucking balls.
Yeah I said it.
He knows that's how I feel and I've said it in front of him several times.
If he would only stop fuckin off and play in front of people (For ANY reason), that shit could get signed to a band or studio in a heartbeat.
Maybe I need to arrange a little something.
Whatever.
SAM!
I know you're reading this... You are depriving the world of your talent, you prick!
Sermon over.
We ended up in the seats in the “Loge” section, NN 130 and 131.
It's a pretty far stretch from the pit.
Not that I'm really into a pit in a large venue like that.
Ed and I were discussing it when I got off on a rant about Maynard James Keenan.
Sam went to see Tool and later saw A Perfect Circle with a couple friends of his from work.
I think it was during the Tool show that a pit started with the double-bass and Maynard couldn't resist;
he said something to the effect (As reported by Sam) “We're not here to have 'MTV Beach-House' fun... We're here to have creative fun.”
Yeah...
Maynard...
I love the music you work so hard at creating. I love that you take time and care with every piece and sound, not being driven to pump out a load every year and just call it an album.
Every release by Tool and APC has been a unique experience...
But you need to understand where the control of your influence ends.
What creative forces are a sweaty, bag of meat and hormones supposed to give over to?
Oh... Well... If you mean mescaline and ketamine, I can see what you're saying...
But what if that isn't what I'm into?
Does that mean that I should just stop listening?
If there is one thing that I've come to understand, it's survival both through enduring and utilizing destructive forces.
One of the rules of the pit is “When a man goes down, you help him up.”
So why don't you just tell me what's so fucking wrong with that?
Why can't those forces be explored as well?
If you really want to make a Public Service Announcement regarding what people do to get off...
The next time you come rolling into town, go around the ghetto surrounding the venue and tell all the winos to put the sauce down.
Maybe that's not your bag.
Perhaps you should tell all the violent wackos that just happen to like your music to go take it out on the people who really fucked up their lives instead of on each other?
Wouldn't it just kill you to imagine somebody going home and hacking up his parents because he thought that's what Maynard wanted him to do.
Is that the motivation for coming down on people who like to pit?
Yes... The only reason I'm saying this is that I'm one of those destructive bastards.
What else would be my reason?
Look... I had an argument with my Literature teacher long ago about interpretation.
I noted that a piece can have several meanings and motives... Some apparent and some underlying.... Many interwoven.
The argument I made was this: “Once something is created, it's definition and existence depend more on the influence it has on those that experience it (and their opinions) than on the motives of the creator.”
My proof was my own writing; I could read something to the class or hand it to an individual and get a response I never expected. The meaning I had put into it was lost on them, but they still felt a personal connection to the work in a way that they had interpreted.
Who was I to say that they were wrong?
I had created something that took on a new meaning and new life for each person it touched.
Basically... What I'm saying is... Get over yourself and let the people be what they are.
That was my Maynard rant that I ended just in time to buy a package of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups from a young lady selling candy.
Yes, I had dirty thoughts about her and No... I won't apologize for them.
The most recognizable music played before the show was The theme from “Pee-Wee's Big Adventure”.
There were also a few The Specials songs thrown in.
The three white balls were hung from the stage with glee...
Upon those balls is usually projected either the video corresponding to the song being played, or some home footage of Primates doing what they will.
Ed noticed my gazing longingly at a nice young lass a few rows in front of us.
He also noticed that I was completely fucking hopeless since she was there with her Asian girlfriend.
“She's a lesbian, you know.”
“Yup... Means she has good taste.”
She was one of those petite, Jodie Foster, 'Little Lesbian on the Prairie' types that drive me nuts.
I would have shot Bush to impress her.
Twice.
The fans begin the courtship call: “Primus Sucks! Primus Sucks! Primus Sucks!”
Lights dimmed and sparse sparks of orange glowed up among the patrons.
I secretly thanked the young couple next to me for helping out with my contact high.
Who needs to smoke when you go to a concert?
Just stand around and enjoy the breeze while glow-stick jewelry is tossed from the back rows.
No opening act.
The three bastards take the stage and jump right into an extra flippy, extra long “Sgt. Baker”
It took me back to Basic Combat Training, although Les' take on it only fits those inductees whose parents never molded them right.
Still... Nothing more fun than an entire amphitheater yelling: “RIGHT! LEFT!”
From there it was a jump into a nice long “Nature Boy” complete with Larry adding a bit more of an Arabic flavor to that night's live version than I remember on the Pork Soda album.
It quite fits my impression of civilian “Military Analysts” and their sickly ways.
I would have proffered “The Pressman” if I had my way with the affair.
The song comes to its end, and Les Decides to address the crowd:
“Hello everyone.
Thank you for coming out to be with us on this Memorial Day Weekend.
It is Memorial Day, and we must remember those who have fallen.
Unfortunately, they are falling way too fast and way too soon”
I'm sure he would have busted into “Too Many Puppies” right there, but that song is on the Frizzle Fry album which they were to perform start to finish in the next set.
Instead, they busted out with “American Life” (Not at all like that shitty Madonna tune)
From there... Memory fails mostly... Not from drugs... But a rather full bladder.
I do remember “My Name is Mud” and one KICK ASS cover of Rush's “YYZ” (Instrumental)!
Usually, I'm one of those freaks dancing like a Sufi in leg shackles; but I had a beer not to be spilled, not nearly enough room to loosen up like I prefer to, and I was watching a rather portly young man nearly trip over himself while twirling around in a stoner pop-lockin style.
Too far from the non-existent pit.
Yeah...
Another sign that the Reich has indeed taken over... No moshing in the pit.
Intermission was announced in white type upon the balls, and I needed to relieve myself... Retrieving a new Nevada would follow as well.
I asked Ed what he wanted (water as usual... Ed had already done all the drugs he ever needs and he don't drink much at all) and shambled down to the stands and restrooms by stage-right.
Upon the screen and balls were played some of those sixties-style Anti-drug propaganda films.
The caveman dopers was the one playing as I made my way to find out that the only booth selling anything but that Colorado shitwater was way back at the front.
Oh well... Wizz and buy Ed water.
I noted the long line at the restrooms.
Myself and a few other enterprising free-thinkers hopped over the side and watered the local flora.
Upon my return, I saw that the line for the Women's restroom was non-existent and pointed that out to eight guys still standing with their hands in their pockets and eyes bulging.
“Shouldn't it be the other way around?” I reminded them.
They all agreed and made a dash for the forbidden door.
Glad to be the voice of reason.
I made my way to hand Ed his water and change when the film playing was one of a young woman describing an acid freak-out where her hot-dog started barking and screaming at her.
Lots of laughs from the audience.
They all knew better.
Not that acid has ever been my thing.
I go for that natural stuff like shrooms.
The final set... The “Frizzle-Fry” album in all it's live glory.
There was even a bit of a pit going for the second half.
Pudgy Boy The Belly Dancer was too mellow to move, and one young man (who only knew one unrhythmic step) was now sitting in his seat with his head in his hands.
Was he in humilliation for hitting on the lesbian?
You've never heard music until you're heard Primus Live... Or at least one fucking musical act that doesn't just play their shit straight off the album note for note.
There aren't many fish out there that have spawned in the main stream and still keep changing their colors... still keep evolving.
When you see Primus, you can count on plenty of exploration.
“Not that I would ever openly condone the use of hallucinogenic drugs...”