CONCERT ETIQUETTE
(i) If you're down the front and the band is on-particularly if they're
acoustic- then shut your big flapping yap. You wanna talk? Go to the back,
go to the fucking bar. Wander outside and get your head busted in by some
over-zealous junkies. Stay at home and mouth off at the television. Still
got excess energy? Then eat pizza, and grow as fat as the rest of your
retarded country.
Exceptions to this rule... Bernard Butler, Western State Hurricanes,
anyone in the Liz Phair school of "sensitive" singer/songwriters, anyone
British (especially The Verve), jazz heads, Sky Cries Mary... Then any
interruption is justified.
Five nights ago, I saw Nebula at the Crocodile. Whoa! Was the last eight
years a dream? A fucking great one? It was like this town had never grown
up. Sticky floor, flashing lights, Black Sabbath drum rolls, sketchy
attendance, Mark Arm standing by the door, some Sub Pop employee dancing
like he'd just discovered vertigo, guys shouting out for re-runs of Lynryd
Skynryd songs, girls thrusting their heads into PA bins, beer all over my
shirt...
This life is scary sometimes. Maybe I should pass on the absinthe next
time. Around me stood tall men, almost all of whom I'd tongue-kissed in
that very spot. Joan Jett plays here next Tuesday. She dresses in black and
intimidates the fuck out of me-like Kathleen Hanna, only not so
imaginative. One day in the not-so distant future, I would like my life
back, if it's not too much trouble.
Excuse me one moment...
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