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Notes from a Morrissey concert (Part 2: Navy Hijinks)
So enough fluffing about, we really have to just press on through and put this one to bed, I am starting to have the Morrissey shakes. I can feel it creeping in. So let’s just put our heads down, keep chatting to a minimum, and I promise we’ll have this gig reviewed and out of here in no time.
Look, I'm not saying they shouldn't keep writing. It's just that I didn't hear anything last night that is going to make me jump out and get their album. And to be fair, the lead singer and the drummer seemed pretty good together. I think the guitarist was also more good than not, but the bass and keys were not really well utilized and I am not saying they have to be, but the songs just weren't there and so you have to wonder if you are hearing a sound that is alright, but nothing new or seemingly special, and you see this bass and keys and you're listening to the track and you are like, what are they playing, what is their function and you realize that you kinda can't make out those sections very often, well you see where I am going with this. You band is more than the sum of its parts. Otherwise you are either an eutorage or a nuisance. Take your pick, I'm not bothered either way, I just need you to step aside so I can pay attention.
For those of you too tired to read review here is the quick cliff note review: [Moz]+[Kansas City + Boredom]=[Doing things you are going to regret all the next day, even when you are suppose to be on stage performing] . . .(click more for the full version)
Notes from a Morrissey concert…April 8, 2009
No longer content to sit on the sidelines, Morrissey's Navy has now given up the tour and are now currently patrolling the Gulf of Aden in search of Somalia Pirates
One of the few truly wonderful things about St. Louis is the fact that no one lives here. It’s like being the only one at Disneyland, except instead of being able to finally realize your childhood dream of making a porno inside the Lincoln Theater, you get really reasonable parking where ever you go. So let me just say right off the bat, any concert in St. Louis is a good concert. Even if I’ve just paid $38.50 plus service charge to watch Carrot Top’s nephew, at least I could get a drink without standing in line for 2 hours. And honest to god, this is not a lie, but I have only had to wait in line for a toilet in St. Louis twice in the entire time I’ve been here. So after growing up in Los Angeles concert scene, which for a kid in the suburbs meant 30 block parking, huge lines for shitty clubs with shitty bands with no air and never even a place to fucking lean. Oh man, the Troubadour? That place is great, a wonderful place. But you can’t park anywhere around the place cause it’s all residential, so you have to valet, which isn’t so much about the money but the fact that everyone valets and so the line to go home is like, stupid ridiculous. And of course the Palladium is about the size of a football stadium. So you are standing in a sea, a vast sea, a multitude of people and just waiting. Standing. Not drinking so you don’t have to pee. Waiting. For fucking ever. Cause shit is always running late. Anyway, the point is that I approach this Morrissey performance from the viewpoint that is blew the fucking doors off the Tea Bag Party they threw outside my office the other day. You should wait for that. It will be the entry titled, Reason to Leave St. Louis, #1. My god those folks looked stupid. I mean, really stupid.
Elephant Dung Paper…like paper, only elephantier?
I know what your thinking. And the answer is no. You cannot substitute your own feces in place of the elephants. I mean you can, of course you are free to do whatever you want, and if that means spending a lazy sunday with a saucepan of your own boiling feces, hey knock yourself out. But just don’t think you can spread it out over that free burlap sac you got last year at the harvest festival and make some beautiful paper products. Because it doesn’t work too well. Also don’t think you will ever get that smell out of your kitchen. Ugh. That is the last fucking time I surf the web tweeked out on mini-thins.
Buy my stuff: Today’s offering…become your own gumshoe with my trusty kit!
Gumshoes are called such because back in the day they had soft, gum soled shoes, and this made them quiet see. So no one could hear them sneaking up on you. The gumshoe became the sneaker. So next time you're on the court, be like, hey, nice gumshoes you gots, homey. Or don't. Cause that sounds totally offensive and you'll probably get hit. Or at least fouled really hard. Or at the most least, a scowl? Yeah, I said it. Sue me.
Admit it, you kinda always wanted to be a secret agent, maybe even took a brochure or two at the job fair when you passed by the FBI table. Probably had that moment where you are naked and filthy dirty, in a ditch somewhere in Mexico, with a half bottle of peppermint schnapps and a dead hooker and thought to yourself, this is it, this is the day I officially rule out becoming a G-man. Well, my friends, now’s your chance to go hog wild and start that home business up. Now I know what your thinking, don’t I need customers? And where am I going to get them? Look, I can’t do everything for you people. Remember, I’m trying to get the hell out of this Popsicle stand? Look, I know this guy. Back in California. He teaches nude yoga for a living. Yoga. In the nude. And he doesn’t have to go to a crappy 9 to 5 job. Its your life people, make of it what you will. But if some dude in Cali can make a living doing the downward dog buck naked, then how I’m I suppose to believe you can’t figure out a money making angle from this here kit?
What is the kit? Oh yeah, I guess I did leave that part out. Well, listen, the whole point of a gumshoe is to go around and ask questions while secretly recording them. Then he goes back to the office and gives the tape to his trusty secretary, who most likely also is in charge of keeping the scotch bottle filled and the soda charged. And after this lovely angel of a secretary transcribes said messages, the gumshoe then calls the afflicted party, throws the pages into their lap and promptly becomes a target for the mob because he knows too much. Or something. I don’t remember the whole plot I was stoned. The point is you can’t secretly record nothing unless you’ve got a handheld recorder. So that is part one of the kit. I mean this of course isn’t the only use for the micro-cassette recorder. You can also get crazy high and talk out loud into it and record your demented thoughts. Also if you are an aspiring Studs Terkel you can record your subjects while you pretend to listen but in the back of your mind work on your shopping list safe in the comfort of knowing all the precious words are being nicely transcribed for future playback. Oh and you know if you’re in school there is nothing better. Just put a tape in, press record and then sleep for your first two periods. Pull out all the tapes before the final, do an all night cramming session and bingo, you’re on your way to a BA in some bullshit subject and all the job prospects of only the 2.8 billion other stoners who did the exact same thing.
Or even just for the aspiring poet/writer/musician/pot belly pig farmer who just really never knows when a good idea will hit him, have this little bad boy on your body at all time and let creativity flow. But for my purposes this was obviously bought for my failed gumshoe business and has only been used twice, once to record my girlfriend snoring, and then put away to collect dust in a cabinet somewhere.
Opening Day: A party for the ages…
Let’s get one thing straight right off the bat. I mean no malice toward my people. I mean I bought a house in the city rather than the county. I pay city tax for working downtown. I’ve eaten a fried ravioli. I mean for god sake it’s not like I don’t try. And to be fair it is currently 41 degrees with snow showers, so yeah, not exactly the kind of climate that screams party time. Except for maybe my father, who use to keep the house like a meat locker in the winter because his extra layer of walrus made him immune to such mortal ailments like frostbite.
Anyway, the point is that this is not meant as a snark post. It is what it is people. If a city is going to base it’s entire self worth on a baseball team, a sport I might add that is so rife with steroids and cheating that to claim it is a *sport* actually strains the bonds of credibility to the point of….well, let’s just say that if the Rock ever wants to give up acting I’m sure Boras could fetch him a cool $100 million or so to *play* for a MLB team, but alas, I digress.
Reasons to move to Chicago, #346
The sign screams Miami Vice, but the upstairs dungeon stays silent. Which really is the beauty of the ball gag.
The Bijou Theatre on Wells St. in Chicago is perhaps the most famous gay hang out in Chicago? I don’t proclaim any sort of expertise in such areas but my internets resources seems to back this up.
According to guidemag.com:
The legendary Bijiou Theater (1349 N. Wells) continues to present the latest and greatest porn films on their big screen theater. Convenient to downtown hotels, the Bijou presents a new double bill show every Friday with Bijou Classics featured every Monday. The theater also hosts live shows including a monthly appearance by Chicago Beef Dancers on the third Friday of every month and special appearances by top porn stars. By far the biggest attraction of the Bijou is the second-floor sex club. Guests can explore a gay man’s fantasy playground with tons of glory holes, dark corners, and a complete dungeon with slings, crosses, and more. Rent a locker, ditch you clothes, and feel free to get carried away. During Chicago’s warm months, guests can also enjoy the Bijou Gardens, a great outdoor oasis in the middle of the city. In the theater’s lobby there’s a huge selection of DVDs available for purchase. Browse at the counter or use the free computer set up to explore Bijou’s website listing over 14,000 titles. Watch for news of their big 40th anniversary coming this fall.
It's like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory...except gayer. You say, "Gayer than tiny orange painted dwarfs?" Yup. It's that gay.
So you know, that would be reason *enough* to want to move to Chicago. I mean have you ever seen the St. Louis Beef Dancers? Not pretty. As my grandmother would say, more gristle than brisket on them piggies. Okay, maybe my grandmother never said that. But she would have. If I was 85. And grew up in Arkansas. Whatever. The point is that if the Moviephone guy sounded like this I might actually waste $12 on whatever horrid Keanu Reeves as alien/closeted gay man/okay admit it he does kinda look cute in that dark suit with the skinny black tie flim is being flogged in the multiplexes this weekend.
Call (312) 943-5397. Its a pre-recorded message. The contents of which you can be heard below
