The Good, The Bad, and The Courtney – A Mini Review of SXSW

This year, South By Southwest was even more of a business trip for me. Not a search and destroy mission of boys, bands, and booze as it was for a lot of my friends. I had notes and cards, I had a freaking power point presentation…would I find the time to enjoy some aural pleasure?

As a panelist I felt a weighty duty to teach and impart pearls of wisdom to the musicians, label people and publicists who braved the rivers of green beer and gathered in the Convention Center for my seminar, Working The Press; Intellectual Intercourse and Interviews.

photo by christopher holcombe

We spent an hour discussing how to land a good radio or TV interview and how to behave properly once you do.

I realized as I was speaking that I was doing it, not only for the audience, but also for myself and my fellow hosts. As I showed the infamous clip of Johnny Rotten behaving badly on The Tom Snyder show, as well as that blisteringly uncomfortable Billy Bob Thornton interview, I realized that I may be helping many of my fellow talk show hosts and radio DJs in the process.

We are not the enemy. We are there to help and we love music just as much as the ones who create it. OK, so my speech was a little Jerry McGuire and a little Almost Famous. I got very Cameron Crowe on their asses. But I borrow from the best.

After the seminar was done, it was rock and roll camp time. Every year, SXSW becomes a bit more unmanageable. More corporate sponsors bring in their forts and tents and unapproved soirees that overshadow the showcasing bands who bust ass to get to Texas and play their hearts out.

I’m not complaining about a free taco and a margarita but I think its a fucking shame that Perez Hilton spends thousands of dollars to paint a building pink, and fly Snoop Dog in for a party that will ultimately keep thousands of people from going to a showcase where a hardworking band (who probably spent every cent they had to get out to Austin) is playing. It sucks and it’s not what SxSw is about. Well, like Sundance, it’s unfortunately what SxSw has become.

I did attend some parties, but I tried to balance it out with showcasing bands and up and coming acts. Here is a cross-section of some of the highs and lows, deep in the heart of Texas.

photo by Eugene Hernandez

I caught a Shadow Shadow Shade performance/taping at the IFC studios Tuesday evening. The band formerly known as Afternoons took to the stage to play some sunny pop in the crowded studios. Though the songs were well crafted and well-played, they didn’t hold my attention very long.

Unfortunately, this was something that was a common occurence this week and a deadly problem for any band vying for attention in a city with thousands of others playing slots at any given time. A LOT of bands in LA/Silverlake right now have that throwback 70s sunny Cali pop sound. I don’t dislike it. In fact, I do like it. What I don’t like is when everything gets very samey. I don’t blame the bands for this, necessarily. I just find it hard to listen to all of it over and over again. When everything begins to sound the same (whether it be sunny pop, electronic MGMT stuff, Emopunk, Hotel cafe, or whatever,) then you better be THE BEST out there, or you will get lost in the Hollywood shuffle. Being great isn’t always enough. Emmitt Rhodes anyone?

Band Of Skulls played at the British Embassy Barbeque party Wednesday afternoon…well BBQ it wasn’t  - not unless you can count empanada type pasties in a chafing dish as a barbeque. Since the food was served al fresco, perhaps the Brits cheekily thought it was Tex Mex style? No matter, I love them all the more for it.

Band Of Skulls, one of the best new bands out there and I dare say, one of the best showcasing bands at South By Southwest, tore apart the stage and showed a craftmanship that has even improved since their being on the road via their Twilight soundtrack spot  and BRMC touring slot. Yet theirs is not a polished poppy sound. It is the cool fuzzy, garage rock sound of an old amp Jimi Hendrix would have plugged into. Amen. For a video interview with the band, click here.

At the NPR showcase, I was introduced to Visqueen who opened for a juggernaut lineup of The Walkmen, Sharon Jones And The Dap Kings, Broken Bells, and Spoon.

The Walkmen and their drunken fairy saloon music have always been favorites of mine. Lead singer, Hamilton Leithautser, is more Sunday New York Times cross word puzzle than Vice Magazine Do and Donts, which makes me supremely happy.

Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings stormed the stage next with some Motown madness which goes to show that the music business is not just for the kids. Jones is a tour de force performer and though it was an older skewed crowd at the NPR showcase, she is almost wasted at a dust bowl like Stubbs. She should be doing class venues such as the Hollywood Bowl.

The next act, was the highly anticipated collaboration between Dangermouse and Shins lead singer James Mercer, Broken Bells. After what seemed like a forever and a day set up, the set was lackluster and uneven, disappointing many in the crowd, which thinned out considerably.

Spoon followed next. Britt Daniel, the unofficial mayor of Austin, did not disappoint the toe tapping, mild-mannered, tax paying NPR crowd, playing many off the new album and even covering the Damned.

Looking for a little bit more trouble than I’d find ala NPR, I dragged myself to a 1:30 am Hounds Below show that did not disappoint. Mixing Brill Building and fuzzy Detroit feedback. Jason Stollsteimer’s new band rocked the Habana Calle into the wee hours of the morning. The band even promised a hot tub party for those who could brave the 1-35.

The Hounds Below

I’m glad for the Roy Orbison, 60′s sound revival that is making a comeback with acts such as Findlay Brown, Codeine Velvet Club and the Motown sounding acts.

On the other side of feedback was The Butterfly Explosion. All the way from Ireland and fronted by Gazz Carr, this Musebox Act kicked off the daytime party with fuzzy, brooding songs. It was half way into their set before anyone noticed the sun was shining with all the shoe gazing going on. The band is a mix of shoe gaze and post rock; Ride meets Sigur Ros with of course some MBV, but with their own lush spin on it. If you like euphoric musical landscapes then you need to check out this band.

Butterfly Explosion

I traipsed over to the Babelgum party at the French Legionare Museum which was on this gorgeous property, rolling lawns gated by stone walls and large trees, tented stages and drink booths…it was much more Coachella than SxSw vibe. The only problem was the sound. It was such a muddy mess that it made The XX sound like they were drowning inside a subway toilet. It was so dreadful I decided to leave rather than to think of them as being that bad.

My next discovery was perhaps one of my favorites of the festival. ARMS sprung forth from the breakup of The Harlem Shakes. Todd Goldstein reformed ARMS, a solo project he had started in ’04, and began performing wry melancholic songs about an unraveling couple. The songs have killer harmonies with a Walkmenesque quality, which makes sense, considering ARMS has found a home with the Walkmen’s label, Gigantic.

Todd Goldstein - ARMS

Goldstein’s vocals have almost a  Michael Stipe and Stephen Merritt quality, wavering yet angry. Still the most interesting thing about the live performance was Todd’s stage presence. Charismatic, and witty in between numbers, he remained far more upbeat than the story line of the doomed couple in his gem of an album, Kids Aflame.

The Rolling Stone Showcase boasted a lot of up and coming artists that hipsters, journos and label people were eager to hear. LA based Dawes played to a sparse crowd, warming up for buzz band The Whigs.

The Whigs

The Whigs had the heavy head when they were crowned by Rolling Stone last year as the best unsigned band in the country. That can often wreck a groups chances, but so far they’ve managed well. Signing with ATO, they hopped on a tour with Kings Of Leon and Dead Confederate. Luckily their dirty Garage sound skews more towards the swirling madness of Dead Confederate with the buoyancy of Kings, but they play songs with more than three chords. They kicked off the show with the battle cry “Turn off the lights, it’s time to party!” and they meant it. They dove into the set, with driving bass lines reminiscent of their future tour mates, BRMC. The Whigs have a bright future. Hopefully they will keep their rock dirty and varied.

Titus Andronicus, another RS buzz band already named the best of 2010, (oh Rolling Stone. You cheeky monkeys. It’s March!) To me, from where I sat crouched by the bar, they seemed like a high performance level shoegaze band named after one of The Bard’s less performed plays. But I could be downplaying them quite a bit. Perhaps that’s because the next band was such a party in a bottle.

Free Energy is the next party cruise in 40 tight minutes. If you like Sweet, Cheap Trick, The Cars, Thin Lizzy, and cute boys who drink beer, then get ready to dance your face off. These guys are only here to make you have a good time. That’s it. They play, you dance. You forget your troubles. It’s the Andrew WK philosophy, minus the fake blood and puke and sticky aspects of rock and roll. It’s the boys answer to The Donnas. The 70′s glam rock era revitalized with tight black jeans and runaways and satin jackets and extra lip gloss just paves the way for Free Energy’s sweet sexy glammy classic rock to make you want to can the can with Suzi Q, Gary Glitter and the rest of them. Each song sounds quite anthemic – perhaps these boys will be played in stadiums during very important sporting matches someday to unsuspecting jocks. But for now, they just wanna have fun.

Free Energy

One of the coveted laminates to wear around your neck was for the Spin showcase at Stubbs. The line up was a  schizo combination: a luke warm set from Rogue Wave, a manic set from Fucked Up (including lead singer, Damian Abraham, creating his own muddy mosh pit by pouring bottled water into the dusty ground in front of the stage and rolling around in it),

Fucked Up - Make Your Own Mosh Pit, Just Add Water

and a lightweight set from the elusive electronics of Miike Snow, which didn’t seem to translate in the broad daylight.

Miike Snow

But the real elephant in the room was waiting backstage. Courtney. It was the first time Hole was playing in the US in ten years. And without Hole. Would she show? Would she have a melt down? Would she be fat? Gawkers, detractors and mega fans everywhere were sticking around through the rather tepid showcase just to catch a glimpse of what I dubbed the Love-Train-Wreck.

The Love Train Wreck pulled into the Stubbs station about twenty minutes late, but for Courtney time, that’s no big thang. Wearing an orange pageant sash that was emblazoned with ‘Beware’, that most likely doubles as caution tape, Love launched into a curious cover of ‘Sympathy For The Devil’…I was not sure she was going to get any, as she announced “We are Hole, whether you like it or not, you little shit sucks.”

Wearing some type of wild, wild, west bar whore outfit and sounding like Stevie Nicks on a bender if she had been gargling with a cheese grater, Courtney flirted with being on key and was brash and confident…she was, well, Courtney.

Playing a mix of older hits (Violet, Reasons To Be Thankful, Miss World) and newer ones (Skinny Little Bitch, Samantha) Love tried to win over the crowd and coax us into thinking that her new songs would vault her back to superstar status. But even when she was making fun of Bret Michaels for being a washed up mess, I couldn’t help but think, ‘Courtney, isn’t that like the Hole calling the chasm, black?’

After a round of meetings and dinners I was whisked back to Stubbs for the Myspace secret show which turned out to be the worst kept industry secret – it was Muse and Metric. I like both bands but what made the night was seeing New York friends I hadn’t seen for ages.

What was unfortunate was the loooong line of über Muse fans that snaked down the streets of Austin who didn’t get close to getting in, while A&R people stood around and didn’t even watch the performance. Oh Music Industry, you big bitch. Afterwards there were many cool show to see. Sixth street in of itself was a carnival, like Mardi Gras, and when my friends and I jumped into a pedi cab to get to another showcase, drunken revelers literally swarmed the cab and began rocking it, trying to get us out. I’m not sure if they were trying to turn the thing over or scare us or the driver…but we were amazed.

This is SxSw, not a Lakers parade you asshats. We know how to handle you and you will get a beat down.

Saturday was my last morning before I escaped Margaritaville and I planned on hitting a few barbeques and panels before the airport.

Bob Schneider played a fun set at Stubbs early in the morning at the Rachael Ray event. And it has become quite an event. My friend and I went over there to catch School of Seven Bells. It was freezing and slightly raining and the place was set up with the sponsors frozen drink machines, instead of the coffee people so desperately needed. Funny thing…the ‘yummo’ food that Ray is supposedly so famous for, was pretty fucking awful. As was her husband’s band, which I think is the whole reason she puts on the event. The name of his band is called The Cringe…I don’t even need to comment further. He’s done my job for me.

Free Energy and LA favorites Local Natives played the small indoor stage (of course. Let The Cringe play the Main Stage and clear the venue. Good idea. Yummo). Andrew W.K.  got some people to party hard…although not too hard, because we were all in danger of losing our limbs to frostbite.

I headed to the convention center early to warm up and catch an amazing panel on Bill Hicks, one of the greatest comics that ever lived. A documentary about his life played at the film festival throughout and I have to say it was an amazing panel discussion – possibly the highlight of the week.

Bill Hicks

Oh Austin. You sure did keep it weird. Your mercurial hot and cold weather. Your open doors to spring breakers and corporate whores. Your damn Grackles. But I love you and I keep coming back for more. Next year? Same time, same place?

Peter Beste, Black Metal, & Spinal Crap

Peter Beste is a very talented music photographer. His greatness lies in his ability to really immerse himself in the world of the subject, whether it be London grime, Houston hip hop, Southern strip joints or Norwegian metal. The result is vivid, arresting photos that juxtapose the subject with a surprising surrounding. Metal star in a safe, white station wagon? Of course.

get out of my bad dreams, get into my car

What I didn’t expect was for his new book, True Norwegian Black Metal, and his Vice VBS TV documentary for of the same name, would be a window on one of the strangest stories in music.

My friend T.C. and I met Jennifer (of L7 fame) and her boyfriend Chris, at the hoity toity restaurant Jar, for drinks beforehand. Sitting at the posh bar amongst a friendly Aussie and a very charming James McAvoy, lulled me into a false sense of Hollywoodland, and made me ill prepared for the metal fairy tale that was about to unfold…

Peter’s Los Angeles exhibit opening was down the block at Zune. Upon entering, it was clear that the walls of photos brought a crowd of black wearing men and women who only come out at night. To rock.

Joan of Ass

Jennifer, T.C. and Chris at the exhibit

The photographs were strange and beautiful, and at times funny or disturbing. The colors and composition made even the most outlandishly dressed gallery attendees fade into the background like wall flowers. Peter was a clear eyed, affable guy, whom you would never think had held the key to the Metal castle, but he did. And he followed the story of Gorgoroth…

photographer Peter Beste

Once upon a time, there was a phenomenon called Gorgoroth. No, not the dead plateau of evil and Darkness in the land of Mordor from Lord of The Rings…the Norwegian black metal band Gorgoroth. They are much more scary than the Tolkien version of Gorgoroth. Sorta.

Gorgoroth was known for it’s members, King ov Hell, Infernus, Tormentor and Gaahl, amongst a revolving cast of shredders. Gorgoroth’s members weren’t strangers to controversy. They had played a show in Krakow, Poland, once the scene of the horrific Holocaust, and displayed sheep heads on stakes, a bloodbath of 80 liters of sheep’s blood, satanic symbols, and four naked crucified models on stage. Awww, cute!

from Peter Beste's exhibit

Other noteworthy incidents included Infernus’s incarceration for assault and rape, and Gaahl’s jail time for torturing a man, apparently focusing his brutality on the man’s testicles. This pretty much ruled out their being booked for parties and Bar Mitzvahs.

from Peter Best's exhibit

Amidst these ‘Behind The Music’ type skids, the band kept up the good fight. For there was a war going on…a war between the Norwegian Black Metal scene and the Swedish Death Metal scene. The Norwegian scene was known for certain members who committed murder, burned down medieval wooden churches, and desecrated graveyards. Despite the Swedish Death metal scene’s attempts to thwart their actions or overshadow it with their raucous, deadly caucophany, the Norwegians held their ground.

Unfortunately, Gorgoroth’s involvement in this Hatfield vs McCoy type battle was cut short when the band split in 2007. This brought another war on, between band mates for use of the name and the trademark. The litigation war still wages on today.

Peter managed to infiltrate this secretive sect of musicians and they eventually allowed him to photograph them and document them for a five part series. Seeing these Norse gods of metal traipse through lush Narnian fields and woods was brilliant – black leather and spikes weighing them down as they climbed steep embankments.

from Peter Beste's exhibit

While the field trips were a bit comical, Peter’s interview with Gaahl became downright eerie in the end. When Gaahl was unhappy with Peter’s line of questioning, he went into a icy rigid state, sitting dead still and staring straight ahead without blinking. While watching this video at the gallery, I thought the video tape had frozen…but the flickering candle in the background proved that this was one freaky dude – he’d make Charlie Manson sleep with a night light on.

Gaahl

As an interviewer myself, I was captivated by this scene. I’ve had my fair share of rock star enfant terribles and one or two who have stepped over the line, into my lap and tried to lick me (or other dog like behavior). However, this was way beyond an inappropriate sexual advance. How did Beste stay seated during this? How did he not run screaming from the room? Any moment the walls could have started bleeding and the windows blown in in some Shining/Amityville styled nightmare. It made me almost swoon in appreciation for Beste’s courage. This video was truly chilling in an Ed Gein, Dahmer sense, which party made me want to know exactly what he did to that man he tortured back in 2002…but then again I’m a twisted soul who keeps a copy of The Stranger Beside Me on my bedside table.

However, the myth of Gaahl unravels a bit here. Though he may be an unstable, psychopath satanist with a cult following, Gaahl’s recent revelations of his personal life betray his monster mask. It was noted in an interview, that Gaahl has been involved with Norwegian modeling agent Dan De Vero since he was eighteen. But not only did Gaahl use his death scythe to hack his way out of the closet, but then revealed that he and De Vero were designing a women’s clothing line called “Wynjo”. Yes, pretty dresses for summer

Oh, and the magazine where Gaahl affirmed his homosexuality? The November 2008 issue of…Rock Hard.

Yeah, Rock Hard. I am not making this shit up. It kinda turns the Tolkienesque bloody tale into a Spinal Crap farce.

True, the music that Beste’s subject matters play would make Marilyn Manson look like Bozo the Clown, but it comforts me somewhat to know that even the most violent men in Norway are still concerned about whether or not hemlines are going up and the difference between a pump and a stiletto.

Ali and TC - metal babe fashionistas

However unintentionally hilarious in parts, the long, strange trip of this heavy metal clan is a fascinating subject. Beste, bless his heart, has captured it stunningly.

Peter Beste’s True Norwegian Black Metal exhibit runs Nov. 21 – December 18 2008 at Zune LA, 8275 Beverly Blvd., Los Angeles, or visit http://www.peterbeste.com.

Cheeseburger, well done.

I don’t eat red meat. But I sure do love me some Cheeseburger. So when I got word that the boys from Brooklyn were coming to town on the Tales of Colt 45 tour, I decided I’d definitely brave the tidal wave of douchebaggery to see some great cock rock.

Now, it’s hard to get me out to shows these days. Especially when a simple gig is overloaded with distractions meant to pull scenesters in. Professional studio photography, ice cream trucks, do it yourself silk screening, grafitti artists…free crack…if the music was actually good, would the clubs need all this excess shit to lure in the jaded Hollywannabes? Or is the pure love of music an outdated quality?

Colt 45 and Vice magazine were banking on the former with this night. one of the many ‘lifestyle’ extravaganzas which litters the LA scene these days. King King was packed when I arrived, and people were swaying, yelling, spitting and fighting. The free 40 ouncers were like the proverbial stick rattling the tiger cage at the zoo. The only thing left to light this powder keg would be a set of searing party rock.

Enter Cheeseburger.

The first thing I asked when I found the band in the crazed crowd, was if their guitarist had been tested. Last time they played in LA, Eric bled all over the stage at an alarming rate. I don’t begrudge an axe man with diseases, but I just had to be sure.

The band assured me that while he may be disease riddled, the calluses he built up would prevent him from bleeding on me during the show. So that takes care of me during the show…I didn’t go into what would protect me afterwards.

Joe, Luke, Eric and Christy, shuffled single file into their “green room” and closed the door so we could get some quiet. Closing the door seemed to make it louder in their actually, the door being less like a piece of paper and more like a noise sponge.

None of them were thrilled to be interviewed, even by an old friend, except for Christy who began snapping pictures and video of me to commemorate the precious moment.

AOTA: What’s the matter? We had fun on Little Radio last year.

JOE: Yeah but we were drunk. You gave us a keg of Heinken.

AOTA: Yes, true. We did roll out a party for you. But you have free Colt 45 – the sponsor of your mini tour. And I’m sure Vice would spring for a few drinks too.

JOE: I actually hate both of those products. I find them distasteful.

Joe scowled and took a swing off a Bud light. Christy stopped taking my picture long enough to survey the energy in the club.

CHRISTY: I feel hostility. I don’t know what it is, but it seems very hostile in this place.

AOTA: You’re in Los Angeles. And you’re in a room of people liquored up on Colt 45 which is slightly less like crack than Sparks, but not by much. But rumor has it that it’s been used as a form of chlorofyl in several kidnappings…

JOE: Colt 45 is for homeless people and college students.

Another long swig of Bud light.

AOTA: What do you have against the homeless? And didn’t you like college?

CHRISTY: College is supposed to be the best time of your life.

AOTA: Was it yours?

CHRISTY: No. I was depressed and lonely in college.

Christy lamented. Pause. Christy snapped another picture. I put my hand up to keep from being blinded by his flash.

AOTA: So when did that change?

CHRISTY: When I got successful and joined Cheeseburger!

Christy yelled this with a passion I haven’t seen from anyone on either of the coasts for a long time.
And I believed him. If you were in a band like Cheeseburger, whose main raison d’etre was to goad people into partying their asses off, wouldn’t you consider it a Cheeseburger job, well done?

Seeing as the guys have had triumph in placement lately, I asked how they felt being featured in Grand Theft Auto IV.

AOTA: Nothing like hearing the song “Cocaine” while you beat the crap out of someone you drag out of their car, yeah?

JOE: I’ve never seen it or played it. I don’t like playing games.

AOTA: You never played a video game? Even when you were a kid?

JOE: I played Q bert.

CHRISTY: Q bert is psychadelic!

Christy added this fact with an air guitar riff played on his beer bottle.

JOE: Cheeseburger is against violence. Enough is enough!

CHRISTY: Yeah! How much quote, violent bullshit, unquote, will we put up with? Make sure you put that part in quotes. And then tell them to ‘Google that’!

Not wanting my article to be a platform for their subversive propaganda, I quickly changed the subject.

AOTA: So, you guys have a song placed in the Will Ferrell movie, Stepbrothers.

I was met with half assed nods and grumbles.

AOTA: Did you see it?

A chorus of no, until Eric sheepishly nodded.

ERIC: I saw it.

AOTA: And? How was it?

ERIC: Uh, hmmm, it was…not good.

The others jeered at him. I think I heard a “duh” form somewhere in the room.

AOTA: Sooo, you don’t drink Colt 45 or read Vice. You don’t play Grand Theft Auto and most of you, except the bleeder over here, wont go see the movie your music is in…so I guess my question is, with all these sponsors that you will work with or take money from – is there anyone you won’t work with?

JOE: Twinkies and marines.

CHRISTY: I’ll work with anyone.

JOE: And Cabbage Patch Kids.

CHRISTY: Wait, you don’t like Xavier Roberts?

Joe shook his head disgusted and stood up and walked away from us.

CHRISTY: Make sure you write that he left the interview at this point.

AOTA: Oh, duly noted.

CHRISTY: I heard about this guy in Europe who opened an orphanage for toy baby dolls. You have to go through adoption interviews and everything. But it’s for a doll.

AOTA: For a doll? Who would do that?

CHRISTY: It’s really popular.

AOTA: Is this something Brad and Angie are contemplating? Have we run out of real children? Is this the only choice left if I wanted to get a baby?

CHRISTY: You could go fuck a homeless guy.

AOTA: Oh, been there. Most of my boyfriends were homeless when I met them.

Then I had to pause and actually think about the fact that someone had suggested I go fuck a homeless man. Over fucking anyone who was in the club that night. That’s how bad the crowd looked, people. One point for homeless men, zero for faded hipsters in capes. Seriously. One guy was wearing a rainbow towel as a cape.

Joe wandered back into our discussion.

JOE: OK, is this done? Anything else? Do you have a serious question?

AOTA: How do you feel about the Village Voice describing your music as ‘crunk punk’?

JOE: Crunk Punk? I don’t even know what that is. That’s not a hard hitting, serious question. Those guys are corporate shills. They have no idea what they’re talking about. They’re a bunch of Oberlin College, left wing, homosexual, shit eating—

CHRISTY: I just realized I have drink tickets!

Christy began pulling wads of red tickets out of his pockets.

JOE: Man, I paid for this beer! Give me those.

CHRISTY: Do I get a serious question?

AOTA: OK, what do you think will help the situation in Darfur.

JOE: You ask me about crunk punk and he gets Darfur?

AOTA: Feel free to answer if you have an opinion, Joe.

CHRISTY: I don’t think out government gives a shit about Darfur, so nothing will happen.

JOE: C’mon give me a serious question.

AOTA; OK. You have a new song called Jellybean. What’s your favorite flavor jellybean?

Joe rolled his eyes at me hard.

JOE: Purple.

CHRISTY: Purple is pussy vagina lips flavor!

JOE: And he gets the Darfur question.

AOTA: Ok, ok. A serious question for you. How can America get out of this recession?

Joe paused a second and looked thoughtful.

JOE: It doesn’t matter. It’s all just…just write ‘it doesn’t matter’. Christy you have those drink tickets?

The guys scrambled away from the couch and out of the green room as if the bell had rung on the last day of school. Luke paused at the door.

LUKE: You coming?

Oh yes. I wouldn’t miss the main event. Not for all the towel caped hipsters in Hollywood.

As Cheeseburger took the stage I looked around, noticing that the mass had thinned out considerably. I ambled over to the bar but before I could even order a gingerale, the bartender barked at me that there was no more free Colt. That explains the personal space around me in the club. Most of the little crack whores were on to their next hyphy crunk party to be seen and scened.

But don’t worry. Cheeseburger didn’t arrive with a pocket full of cock rock for nothing. As if transformed by some combination of electric guitar and malt liquor, these creatures from the valley appeared, dressed as if it were still 1988. Not the ironic fashions mind you. These were the authentic Sunset Strip customers that kept people like Vince Neil decked out in rhinestones for years.

As Joe postured and growled his way through the set, these creatures became bolder, rushing the stage and trying to grab the mic from Joe’s sweaty paws. One woman, old enough to have given birth to almost everyone there, kept gyrating on top of the monitor and throwing herself at the mic stand repeatedly. No amount of security could restrain her, and soon the beefy dudes just gave up.

Now, I do love cheeseburger, but I have yet to see any AARP aged women throw themselves at them as if they were at a Bon Jovi concert. Was it the Colt? Or the crushing guitars and pounding drums?

I’d like to think it was the latter. Hopefully the next party Cheeseberger plays will be Colt free. I’d hate for everyone to think they were having fun just because they were really fucked up. In fact, I challenge Cheeseburger to play an aclohol free joint for their next gig. I guarantee everyone will have just as much fun. Cheeseburger is sonic crack – a raging party in every song. And just maybe you’ll get some purple jellybeans.