Cherry Ghost
November 20th, 2004 | Posted by Shannon
I love San Diego, but if there is one thing I don’t love, it is having to go to L.A. to see live music. It gets expensive, and also, it is a generally a long, hard ride home the next day. How come L.A. gets some bands for two shows, and down here in San Diego, we get shit?
Totally pisses me off. But of course, I was not about to let that stop me from driving up to L.A. to see Wilco last night. No fucking way. There is going to be a lot of swearing in this entry. I FUCKING LOVE, LOVE, LOVE WILCO.
Yes, it totally pisses me off that they skipped San Diego, especially since the last time they were here in 2002, they sold out their show and I was one of a couple thousand people watching them. Isn’t that enough?
The TWO L.A. shows were at the Wiltern, in Koreatown. I didn’t know there was a Koreatown until I pulled up at the Ramada Inn, Koreatown. I got there at 6:00 P.M. and Mark, who’s father’s memorial service was yesterday, was taking the train in. By the time he showed up he was feeling a plethora of emotions and also, the effects of a few beers he’d had with friends and also, a half bottle of wine he consumed on the train. He was well on his way, understandably, of course. We went across the street to get some sushi. The sushi place was packed and we sat at the bar where the sushi guys were setting out immense plates of fresh fish, artfully arranged in little rectangles domino style. Frantic servers whisked them away to some room where they were feeding an army. We ordered some sushi and a plate of abalone, which we ordered because it came with a tasty looking sauce in a tiny abalone shell (which I know is illegal, the plucking of tiny abalone from the sea, and this will be the first of two abalone references of the evening.) Our abalone came with no sauce and it was also RAW. Blech. Nasty. Gross. The servers were too harried for me to ask them to throw some panko bread crumbs on it and fry it, please. I did try It – and It was Disgusting. The sushi was good, though.
Anyhow we left the sushi bar and walked across the street to the Wiltern. I must be living on another planet, because we got there at 9:00 P.M. and the opening act was already done, and Wilco was going to start any minute. Recent events on my planet are, the headliner doesn’t go on until 10:30, or even later. But whateves, the sooner the better. I ran down to the front only to be stopped by a security guard. “You can’t go down there,” he said. Huh? I asked why and he said “you have to have a wristband.” Is this some new bizarre Los Angeles custom, like for the “in” people or something? “Where do I get a wristband, then” I say. The guy tells me we have to be one of the first 200 people, then we get to go in front.
Well, this is what I say to this custom: FUCK THAT.
Couldn’t get down there though and so I was totally freaking out because my favorite American band was about to start and there were really tall guys everywhere. Really tall guys are generally nice people but at a show, they suck. I searched around for a solution, Mark running after me, the poor guy. Finally… and this is where I know the gods of rock n roll smile down on me – I see a couple of stairs, then a wooden railing. Then I see a little girl. That’s it, that’s my spot. I go and stand right behind the little girl, and from there I have a fantastic viewing spot with absolutely no chance of a tall guy getting in the way. “I am not moving from this spot,” I tell Mark. “Can you please go and get me an Absolut Raspberry and soda?” The little girl is there with her dad. There are four loud yuppie-guys on a hall pass standing next to me. One of them is asking his friends “what was that other hit by the Turtles, besides Happy Together?” His friends weren’t all chiming in at once, so I did. “Uh, that would be It Ain’t Me, Babe,” I said. They looked at me like I was insane. “I don’t think so, it was something else,” Yuppified replied. “Dude.” I said. “My ex-Stepdad was the bass player for the Turtles. Believe me, it was It Ain’t Me Babe.” They looked at me like I was lying, and proceeded to quiz me down. Would I make up a story like that though? Not only do I not want attention, but if I did I’d have a better story to tell. They sent out a volley of inane questions. “He wasn’t in the Turtles when my mom married him – he was by then an abalone diver,” I told them. I don’t think they believed me, but I didn’t really care. I’ve been to enough L.A. shows by now to know, sometimes it is just best to ignore the natives.
Thankfully, the lights went dim and Wilco emerged. Let me just say that for the next two hours, the boneheads next to me were not even a blip on my radar. It was just me, Mark behind me, the little girl in front of me, and Wilco.
And I was in TOTAL, FUCKING HEAVEN. This was a show that lifted me out of my body and put me in a place that I will be dreaming about for years. This was not even a show. It was a fantastic assault on my senses; it was better than sex. That’s it – it was better than sex. Lest you think “wow, homegirl must not have experienced blah blah blah” let me tell you, I probably have and this was much, much better.
The first few songs, all from a ghost is born, were relatively quiet and from my perch behind the little girl, I could hear much conversation around me. I tried to tune this out the best I could and not let it get to me. In the end though, all conversation would stop, because when the guitars started in (three of them, three guitars, how I love, love, love three guitars) there is no way anyone could converse in that room. I love it when the rock n roll tongue gets shoved down the non-believers throat. The little girl was one of the believers – when Wilco played the beautiful song “Muzzle of Bees,” she asked her father to pick her up to see better. Since this is my favorite song from a ghost is born, I nodded to Mark “hey, check that out.” She later wanted to be lifted during “Poor Places” from Yankee Hotel Foxtrot – a mini me if there ever was one. She kind of looked like me, too. It was fairly weird.
The crowd was silenced by the fourth song in the set, “Handshake Drugs,” with distortion that came down around my ears and entered my head and moved me in a way that would be addictive, if the drug companies could package it. It was the first time during the show that I knew I was experiencing brilliance. Live brilliance, ’cause I already am fairly familiar with the studio brilliance. And it kept on, a barrage of guitar and killer drums and general happiness coming from all the band members, save Jeff Tweedy who I now see should probably never speak unless he is singing, and the people bopping up and down all around me. Mark and I wanted them to play “Theolgians” in honor of his father, who had been talked up by a Catholic priest earlier in the day. When they did, Mark and I toasted Joe, his dad, and sang along.
I’m going away
Where you will look for me
Where I’m going you cannot come
No one’s ever gonna take my life from me
I lay it down
A ghost is born
Jeff Tweedy did manage to astound me with his totally inapproriate comments, little things that made me cringe, such as “We love our fans, but not enough to change the set list” when asked to play something not on the set list, and “I feel some negative energy coming from this side of the room…” Dude. These people are LOVING YOU. Be nice to them. Fine, don’t change the set list, no one will ever know.
It doesn’t really matter what a nerdy doofus he is because he is a Fucking Genius. And he totally and completely rocks my world. And out of however many thousands of nights I live and how many hundreds of shows I see, I will never forget those six guys sending arrow after arrow of happiness straight into my heart. And then Jeff sings, and I sing
Something in my veins, bloodier than blood
Something in my veins, bloodier than blood
Something in my veins, bloodier than blood
Something in my veins, bloodier than blood
What you once were isn’t what
you want to be anymore
It’s music, it’s Wilco, it’s what I live for, it’s better than sex. It is definitely better than sex.
