On the drive down to Hollywood to see one of my favorite bands the other night, a general feeling of menace hung over me. It told me, yur in trouble fella, stay vigilant. Due in part to the impending noise of the show – more likely enforced by the run of my life seven days prior.

Arriving early, wanting to stand up front without a problem, I park my car in a garage on Vine. Walking towards the venue, I make a left on Hollywood boulevard, trusting my intuition instead of my phone. Having left it behind with my wallet and key chain, I’m hoping to limit my non-essential, non-bodily attached possessions to a minimum. About ten seconds into my stride towards the venue, I realize I might be walking the wrong way. I ask the doorman at one of the bars, “Hey Man, which way is the Fonda?” “Which way is the what?” he shoots back. “The Henry Fonda Theatre,” I reply. “Oh,” he said, “it’s right over there,” confidently affirming and pointing in the direction I’m already walking.

Thanking him, I continue up the street until my internal radar tells me to double check the address on the ticket. “Damn,” I say to nobody. Taking a deep breath of the cool, smoke free air, I realize I was just knowingly deceived by the first person I asked for help. And in the big city no less. I should keep my damn mouth shut. I turn around, hoping to make eye contact with the asshole and planning to say something like, “Hey Shitbird, thanks but no thanks for your dose of good cheer. Fuck you, and have a nice evening.” Passing the bar, he doesn’t even notice me, instead just staring off into space. Softening, failing to follow through on my revenge, I realize I don’t need the extra adrenaline. I make it to The Fonda, the marquee lit up and pretty like an old porno theater from Taxi Driver.

The opening band hasn’t come on yet. I get a virgin Diet Coke from the bar and scope things out. A lotta folks arrived early. With a gender ratio of about 8:1, about one in five of the fellas are wearing some version of my neato rimmed glasses. Besides the specs, the rest of my uniform is much more practical. I’m wearing well-fitting blue jeans, a plain black t-shirt, and dusty trail runners. For some reason a lot of these guys insist on covering up with completely unnecessary accoutrements. Hey look – well-coiffed guy has on a thick jean jacket covered with punk rock patches. Look over there – a Deftones roadie is wearing a beanie and a sweatshirt but he’s keeping it casual in super long shorts. Homey – surely you realize that in an hour and a half you’ll be dripping with sweat.

Some of them know well enough, as the median age in here is cranked up to about thirty-nine, but a lot of these boys are Sunset Snappers who wanna be seen in their cute outfits. Despite their appetite, they don’t know what they’re in for, or maybe they do and that’s just how they roll. I would’ve worn contacts myself, but I finished my last pair before the Thomas Fire and haven’t had a chance to reorder. My mickey mouse optometrist will screw it up for sure, fumbling the order for the third time. Out of necessity I’ve convinced myself that on this occasion my glasses will work just fine. However, I haven’t been to a rock concert of this magnitude in a few years. Rewarded for my absence, in a little while I’ll be just like everybody else, routinely displaced by an inbred optimism.

Metal lookin’ dudes account for fifteen percent of the crowd. Now in their forties – polite smiles – happily married. Kindly faced with long bushy beards, their average group size adds up to three or four. Looking at them, I feel alone and awkward, standing against the wall with my big paper cup of Diet, no phone, and no friends. I’m good at talking to strangers, but tonight it feels too fraught with risk. Good thing the people watching prevents these feelings from becoming too prohibitive. The Jesus Lizard, after all, haven’t toured in like nine years or something – so remember to remember that this is a very special occasion. The gals in here don’t fit as neatly into boxes as the fellas. Some of them are older, dolled up in edgy make up and hot clothes, sticking close to their well-heeled dates. The younger ones are ragged yet lovely, abused since childhood but making it work with knowing haircuts and thrift store gems. Others look like dowdy sweatshirt moms from Ventura, looking to revisit the old days with stoner friends who never outgrew this sorta thing. Under the stage lights, pink and warm, I see a sweet faced Asian teenager wearing an Easter colored jumper. An eighth grader at a Christian school dance, she looks temporarily orphaned from her group. Maybe a Korean church bus dropped off some tourists down the block. While enjoying the walk of fame they got swindled by a scalper selling them on the gin-u-eyen rock n’ roll experience.

Dead Rider out of Chicago take the stage after being introduced by David Yow as his favorite band. Apparently they make David’s thing stand up. With an introduction like that, I wasn’t expecting just a tad more than the deconstructed wet-trumpet rock of Jackie-O Motherfucker. Not that Rider played trumpets, at least not tonight, but when every instrument plays their own song and nothing locks together, you wait for something to help you like it. Of course, it never comes. If I knew ahead of time not to expect anything resembling Death Grips crossed with James Brown, perhaps I would have appreciated their minimal blasts of encroaching anxiety more at face value. Frontman Todd Rittman has some serious gravitas – a Buffalo Bill with a black guitar pick glued to his giant forehead. But like myself, the audience was visibly bored and waiting for somebody to tell us if we should like it. We clapped more to help them save face rather than out of thanks. They aren’t for us – and that’s ok. That doesn’t mean that once in awhile I don’t wanna visit the dark corners of Albinia while trawling the vast O’rourkian Universe, seemingly off limits to fans who need a constant dose of Soul Power to keep things crackin’. So maybe when I go home, I’ll throw on Rider’s greatest hits, turn off all the lights, and work up to a feverish pace on my rug. That way I’ll have the best chance of sinking whatever they call hooks into my needy cognition. More importantly, hundreds of people wont be standing around implying they suck ass.

Is this another example of your favorite artists having favorite artists you can’t hardly fathom? Ie, to the horror of his colleagues, Iggy Pop used to spin Sun Ra records to warm up before his shows. To the horror of his fans last Thursday, Yow (and Co?) pushed Dead Rider up on stage. I guess the greats feel like they need to show off their untouchable taste – the notes not being played – elevated above the rest of us to provide cover for their more common peddled filth. In any case, Rider was the perfect counter punishment to prime us for the ensuing pleasure of our heart’s desire. And that’s ok.

But it doesn’t always have to be this way, does it? Six years ago, Scratch Acid played the El Rey Theatre. Their opening act put on a really solid hell ride. Unlike tonight, I was completely insulated and propelled by whiskey, so maybe I’m wrong. I wish I could remember their opener. I tried looking them up awhile back, but online details surrounding opening acts and their set lists are surprisingly hard to find. I should really start bringing a really short pencil and a ripped off corner from my notebook to write these things down.

Moving in real close after Rider, if I knew ahead of time how long the headliners were gonna stall, I would’ve taken a mouth breather and walked around the block. Instead, I just stand there for an hour. Standing, standing, standing – looking at all the pretty lights and fun rococo carvings – glancing at faces to form a working inventory of any immediate dangers. Seems free of any derelict outliers. In fact, I don’t really see any rapid cognitive evidence that any of us well bred fans will turn heathen once the curtain goes up. Boy am I wrong about that one. Behind me, about seven of the Korean tourists are speaking mandarin. One of them brushes my shoulder as he extends his arm to take a selfie with his girlfriend. I offer politely, “would you like me to take yur photo?” They are very taken aback, pausing for about 3 seconds before I offer with a thumbs up, “you good?” “We’re good,” says the boy in perfect English, all seven of them flashing nervous smiles while simultaneously tilting back to give me – the sad man – a little space.

Finally, and I do mean finally, the lights go down and the curtain goes up. From stage left, Wepwawet appears, and we grow silent and transfixed. The ancient jackal-headed Egyptian god thought to be the “opener of ways” is holding a white 5-gallon paint bucket filled with an unknown substance. He is covered head to toe in a snow-white canine costume, save his weathered black cowboy boots. Stopping in front of the mic stand, he slowly puts down the bucket. The rest of the band enters, and after strapping in, David Sims starts in with the first bass line from Then Comes Dudley. The first swell of the crowd is immediate, timed with the music, all of us going into survival mode as we instantly regain the muscle memory of how to balance within the unyielding mob. Up on stage, Wepwawet turns out to be David Yow in disguise – he’s warming up by reaching in and showing us what’s in his bucket. An oily black water drips down his forearms, staining his fur. Clapping his hands to splatter the oil on his muzzle and throughout the orb of multicolored lights, we are truly grateful, clamoring closer to feel at least one droplet – preferably absorbed into our eyeball en route to our brain. Duane Denison is there too – strangling his guitar, a pulsing jangle crying out for mercy. Mac McNeilly is real too – on drums – syncing up perfectly with Sims before Yow starts pulling off his disguise. Underneath, it looks like him enough, but he’s completely bald and about fifteen years older then I remember from six years ago. He starts in with his howl.

A big curly headed fuck of a ginger, maybe fifty years old, is the first to crowd surf. God damn he’s heavy. He smells incredible, already black out drunk and possessed of an endurance out of reach for a man of mere exercise like myself. He’s pulled out by a bouncer after five songs, but he warms up my section to the point of nausea by the time he’s expelled.

Puss, in the number two slot doesn’t help matters of composure, giving me the first song where I can scream along at the top of my lungs.

Get her out of the truck

Get her out of the truck

Get her out of the truck

Get her out of the truck

I hear one of the kindly fellas tell his wife, “it’s ok” offering reassurance about the resilience of her 120 pounds in the face of these 200 pound beasts. I see a smallish pretty thing clinging desperately to the stage, thankfully only having to worry about the 180 degrees behind her. I’ll protect her rear flank. I think a lot of the fellas in here, most of us decent if not unhinged – each have a girl we kinda pick out, even if she’s not ours, to protect against the terrible waves of violence. Using our broad shoulders, massive rib cages, and expertly balanced thighs we take the brunt of the impact on the opposing side of our mark. This is not to say the chicks can’t hang. They surely can, and when I see the pit is opening up behind me to give space to the more aggressive fuckers, a beautiful young girl is in the center, smiling wide and nasty as she holds her ground – the big guys hesitating as she fucks em up good.

Yow’s furry torso is still on, but his pants are off, revealing a zebra print thong, slowly streaked with oil. Down his ass and thighs, generously displayed with a rotating bow, something else is going on with his face. He’s picking at his temple, and much to my delight his skin is turning to latex. It’s ripping off with a snap, the remains offered to the crowd with a sacrificing sling shot. Gladiator, probably my favorite track, is careening out of control and causing me to lose my voice only three songs in, alarming my already alarmed neighbors.

And of the warm sun

And the pain in my side

–

But if you ask her where she’s gone

She’ll spout and banter on and on

About a germ free place

About a germ free place

In anywhere

Somewhere during the next song Yow takes his first stage dive, getting close to me and surfing right over me, making me choose exactly where I want to put my hands. I could go with his crotch, stomach, or chest. Unsure of what I want, one of my few indecisive moments during the show, I go with the chest for maximum upward thrust. Although smashing my palms into his puffy zebra junk might’ve proved memorable – maybe a taintly aside – hopefully he appreciates these moments of restraint among the faithful.

My glasses, along with every guy’s glasses, are getting roughed up something awful. At one point, a crowd surfer kicks the side of my face, causing mine to fall off. While they’re falling off my face, I try to catch them mid air, sending them skyward instead. Imagine a little kitty on its back playing with a tissue that’s caught in a windy updraft. Now imagine I’m the kitty, the tissue is my glasses, and the updraft is a vortex of intertwining body parts. I manage to grab them on the last attempt before they’re sucked up forever. Looking around, all the guys with glasses have either pocketed them, lost them, or soldiered on amiably with a cock-eyed fog. Serves us right for being so stupid, lazy, and vain.

During brief moments of rest between or during songs, I check in with people, careful to keep my hands in a neutral yet prepared position. A noteworthy lifer is now in front of me, his long black curly hair streaming down over his Dr. Strangelove – rodent A-bomb – rodeo patch sewed into the back of his jacket. He shoots me a quick autistic look, and after seeing his mustache I immediately see Mike Schank from American Movie. After the show, I wanna go drink Vodka and watch Coven with this dude. We could try our hand at like, a hundred lotto scratchers while we’re at it.

A shirtless beau hunk has taken over as the insufferable crowd surferer making everybody nervous. Mod haircut Gabe from The Office is proving himself as well, despite the collared 1970’s shirt his mama picked out. 6 feet 3 but only 160 pounds, instead of rolling heavily from hand to hand, he lifts off like a rag doll from the extra effort needlessly exerted by people overestimating his weight. Back in the circle I don’t see the pretty girl anymore, replaced instead with a terribly angry yet handsome man of means, holding court as King Prick. Wearing an army-green vest and possessed of a very tall and lean physique, he seems truly mean and unhappy, his sole objective having little to do with the music and everything to do with proving himself. He is the exception to the rule in this room where most people want the violent catharsis without the piss taking aggression.

Not that I’m without my surges of anger, reserved mostly for those pathetic enough to think they need their phones to document the show. A few times when somebody next to me takes out their phone for photos or video, I start to build up momentum to knock it out of their hands. The close quarters make it a tall order to concentrate a direct blow without using a fist, so I cool it for the most part, forgiving those for they know not how they suck. What the heck are they gonna to do with those photos anyway? Will they end up in a highly cultivated folder on a hard drive, dug out 5 years from now for a tremendous circle jerk among like minded friends? Will they look at the photos and say, “gee, I was there, can you believe it, yay me?” Who cares, dude. Stop being an asshole and be here now for Pete sakes.

The next time Yow jumps into the crowd, I have both my hands up letting him know I’m ready. Everybody thinks this next part always happens to them, but I swear he looked right at me, square in the face, before he swan dove directly at me, bro. Me catching him and holding him up with both hands on his stomach. Everybody’s hands are on him, his latex skull-face almost completely ripped off, revealing his thinning matted old-guy hair. Grabbing his arm, people are feeling his paternal presence, he is managing to connect with every single person in the room. Holding on to his arm I am holding on to my dad in the pool – all leathery skin and hairy protection – me laughing hysterically while he wades into the deep end – where I can do nothing but trust that he won’t drop me.

Before finishing up their first set with 7 vs. 8, Yow needs to surf all the way to the back of the room, which he does, a bunch of us holding the mic cord up so it doesn’t get swallowed up by the mass. On the way back, he gets badly dropped in a spot close to the pit, people not paying attention or filling in the damn gaps. When we push him back up, he starts excoriating us for our lack of effort. Back on stage he does 30 push-ups in as many seconds, jumps up, and tells us to scream and clap as loud as we can. We try, but we are exhausted, and he calls us on our lack of effort, saying, “Fuck you, you don’t really care, and you certainly don’t even try.” His jeans on but his shirt off since he shed the fur, he flexes his bare fifty-seven-year-old bod in a Mr. Universe pose. 5 foot 8 – a rangy 160 pounds soaking wet – he’s a deflated strong man from a 1920’s circus. He continues…

“How many of you fellas out there have ever worn a thong? Looks like 18 of you are raising your hands.”

“They’re not very comfortable, are they? Mine is sticking to my asshole, almost like a tiny pussy, but glued in place with mud instead of cum.”

They leave and come back for their first encore, leaning in hard with Monkey Trick. It’s one bull dyke of a song, so thank god we had a few minutes to recover. The scream at the one-minute mark paired with Sim’s bass makes me grateful but confused – how did I of all people manage to get tickets to the best band in the world? Even though they’ve been around forever and they’re highly revered and respected, they ain’t as avant-garde as the eggheadery thinks they are. These fuckers groove, and although they play with sometimes virtuosic abandon, everything is locked into an undulate rhythm. If yur even slightly disposed to thrashing or dancing, yur not gonna be let down per the chance by a truly art house – post hardcore snooze.

Why didn’t they blow up along with their more dangerous peers like Nirvana? Yes, Jesus’ lyrics were more explicit and their sound more experimental and elusive, but Cobain was as dark as midday on a sunless planet compared with these nerds. So why the heck were we sold the drug addled diva of self hatred when they had the chance to elevate the satirical violence of sexual mania instead? But what do I know, I wasn’t there and I didn’t get around to them until 2008. If they did blow up back in their day, I certainly wouldn’t be able to see this reunion show – out maneuvered by connected scenesters and glitterati just like I always am when Dave Chapelle comes to town.

So for me, I’m fucking glad they didn’t blow up, because once in awhile somebody small deserves to see the best stuff in the world too. Played in a small venue to folks who’ve paid their dues and know what’s up. But as far as merit and money are concerned, The Jesus Lizard of course are more deserving than other alternative darlings like The Pixies. And it goes without saying how much they ridiculously outclassed commercial chum like Candlebrains and Silverbox. Explicitly encouraged by our record company taste makers and implicitly persuaded by the market driven demand for germ-free grunge – despite the real violence of the more popular cliches – we are all complicit in the mistake that these fine American masters ain’t household names. Wheelchair Epidemic completes their first encore, and they leave us for the second time.

Back for three last songs, post grunting and wailing through Dancing Naked Ladies, Yow reaches in for his dick and comes back up with a balloon animal instead. Head encased in fist – stretching the base down over his pocket while his pubis peaks over his zipper. He holds on to it for the length of Blockbuster, their last performance of the evening – taking us back to their EP from 1989 – Pure.

Your first mistake, was to think, you could fuck with the ranch

Here I come, here I come, with my dick in my hand

Do you think you’d like to have a blockbuster up your ass

Do you think you’d like that, well do ya, motherfucker

Do ya

Motherfucker

Do ya

Shows over – nobody says a word to me as we evacuate – sweat line down to my naval. I leave – staggered gait down the sidewalk letting the cold air hit my t-shirt – glorious. On the way home I break my glasses while waiting for my Filet-O Fish at a drive thru in The Valley. I needlessly try to straighten out the frames even though they are completely fine, splitting them in the process. They were only a little off kilter.

Complete Set List – 12/14/17

1] – Then Comes Dudley

Puss

Gladiator

Seasick

Killer McHann

Glamorous

Mouth Breather

Destroy Before Reading

Nub

My Own Urine

If You Had Lips

Boilermaker

Blue Shot

Chrome

7 vs. 8

Encore:

16] – Monkey Trick

Bloody Mary

Thumper

Fly on the Wall

Wheelchair Epidemic

Encore 2:

21] – Thumbscrews

Dancing Naked Ladies

Blockbuster