February 13 Black Lips, You stay classy, San Diego!

I took a business trip to San Diego and ended up seeing some crazy music after a wild day of travel, work, planes and screaming.

On the neighborhood bus with suitcase in tow at 7:30 am. Take care of various deadlines at work until 2:15 and hop on the AB SkyRide bus to the airport. Land in San Diego 1/2 hour late and take a taxi to the hotel which is across the street from the airport on Harbor Island. Check in, take shuttle to the 'bay tower', in my room, check view from balcony (AMAZING), wash face, and change clothes. I check the time; 9:35 p.m.

I felt like a fish out of water going to this show. Oh, sure, safe on my couch at home the prospect of getting in a $8 cab and traveling a couple miles seemed totally plausible. But now, standing in a room bigger than most apartments I've owned, I felt like ordering room service and watching Letterman.

I was in San Diego and the warm embrace of the adventurous night beckoned.


When in Rome. Veni Vidi Vici.


I arrive at the Casbah at the same moment as another ticketless guy, who immediately blows his wad begging with the doorman, gives up quickly and leaves. I lean against the wall and bide my time. Sure enough the doorman relents and sells me a ticket. The Casbah has the feel of an indoor-outdoor college dorm room. The lighting is a mixture of multicolored christmas lights and mid-sixties romper room chandeliers. There's an outdoor patio between the back bar and the room with the stage. The back bar that has red felt pool tables and old-school video games.
The vibe is welcoming, dark, hip and slightly subterranean.


I order a pint of Guinness and hear the first band take the stage. On this evening Beehive and the Barracudas consisted of two guitarists, a bassist and a drummer who happened to be female. Garage rock. A mix of noisy jangle and winsome good humor. I thought for sure these guys were local but a little post-show Google shows that they are actually from Michigan (I think) and that their female drummer is actually they keyboardist. Solid and surprisingly tight performance, too bad there weren't more folks there to appreciate it.



At this point I've decided that I am going to hang close to the stage so I can see without being trampled, so I hang up close as the Pierced Arrows set their instruments up. A three piece consisting of a bass, guitar and drums, the Pierced Arrows look like they have been playing punk rock for the past 30 years.

Hailing from Portland, Oregon Fred and Toody Cole inspire phrases such as "flawless lo-fi" and "sincere angst." As they got heated up I realized that would need to get much closer to the stage for the Black Lips set. People were already jostling pretty vehemently on the dancefloor, stopping just short of full on mosh. I was mesmerized by Fred's ability to scream in key and thrash his guitar violently without breaking a sweat. Their take on Neil Young's meditation on fame, Mr. Soul, was nothing short of classic.



After Pierced Arrows I've decided to sit on the stage to save my feet. At this point I've been up for 18 hours and on my feet for much of that time. The Black Lips take the stage and all mayhem breaks loose. People are being pushed and practically thrown onto the stage. The crowd surges forward and the band says that it is 'magic time.' The familiar bassline for O Katrina reverberates and the crowd settles down slightly.


The Black Lips play pure garage rock. You get the sense that they could care less if they were playing to an audience or a wall of license plates. There were times when the band seemed oblivious to their audience, playing in the dark while sitting on the floor.
Their lead guitarist kept spitting into the air and catching his loogies....


And I am fairly certain the bassist was on some sort of mind expanding drug.

Their mix of psychedelic rock, punk, and blues is very energetic and full of youthful piss and vinegar.
While this was compelling spectacle, I never quite bought into the schtick and I worked my way toward the back of the room. I walked through the patio, past the Pierced Arrows holding court an out through the front door. I grabbed a cab and was whisked away to my hotel.

Later that weekend while out with a group of colleagues, I caught a one man band at the Blarney Stone. The combination of an empty bar, this creepy one man band synthesizing his voice and the bar staff who didn't speak any English made me feel totally queasy. Once he played this verison of Ring of Fire, I had to go in the bathroom and puke. You stay classy San Diego!