if reviews were word vomit: wolfmother @ the wiltern

November 26, 2009

This experiment was conducted after writing half of my 15 page term paper for my Rhetoric of Los Angeles class in which I deconstructed the movie Clueless for both its ambivalence towards Hollywood-ized wealth and debunking mechanisms including Josh and Cher Horowitz, herself. I took a break to attend the Wolfmother show at the Wiltern and (stupidly) smoked a joint between sets with randoms in the patio. The resulting “review” was written on a laptop in my car after I had a panic attack thinking that I was in the crowd at a fictional Guitar Hero “concert” and had to leave. It’s a little more personal than how I normally like to write, but I thought I’d keep it unedited in the spirit of Richard Meltzer, et al. The last part about Slash was added today, after I realized that Slash showed up about 20 minutes after I left:

The crowd appeared to be 75% dudes and 25% weird-ass chicks with their dudes. The opening band was fronted by a badass-looking Sheryl Crow-meets-Kim Gordon guitar player whose vocals were so deep it took me two songs to realize it wasn’t coming from the guy on the slide guitar. Maybe it was her muscles or the fact that she wasn’t on a bass, but I half expected her to be the one shredding. Realizing the riffage came from the meek-looking guy in the corner blew the whole “maybe I can be okay with arena rock for the next 10 minutes” moment I accidentally fell into. And then the guy behind me came back with his second beer and started breathing the first one on me, banging his Metal Mullisha baseball hat into my head and telling Lauren and I that our excitement was killing him. Stoked when the Heartless Bastards stopped (what a great unintentional pun), I took the opportunity to go to the bathroom, which was downstairs and to the right. For some reason there was a bar in the bathroom lobby and it reminded me of the carts right outside the bathrooms at Disneyland that sell fruits and pickles in a bag (you must know someone who bought those monstrous things). The line was horrendous and I wished I didn’t have to stare at drunk people emerge from the bathroom to realize they’d just made enough room to pack another one in and the dolled up housewives talking about their children’s shitting habits was making me sick, too, so I went back upstairs to the smoking area. For the remainder of halftime I smoked a cigarette with a guy dressed like a legitimate postmodern hippie and his friends from San Francisco who I blunty told that I wet the bed until I was 8 and a half. We talked about psychedelics and my term paper on Clueless (the only thing that’s actually truth here) then I returned to the cavernous old thee-aye-ter just in time to be moted by an effeminate dude who was 6 feet tall. He moved me behind him because his “bro” was in front of me and no way was I going to separate them tonight (!). Anyway, the view sucked because it didn’t exist and the guy next to me kept talking about how the asshole tall guy in front of me is such an asshole so I went back to the bathroom and sat with Lauren. The band thundered upstairs like the apocalypse was upon us, but, no, it was just Wolfmother, sounding like Led Zepplin on Guitar Hero. Back inside, I found another shitty view behind another tall guy (remember the ratio?) and halfheartedly headbanged with the rest of the crowd for a few songs before their actual Guitar Hero song came on and them my comparison all made sense. One of the white boy afros on stage soloed for about a 9000-note Shred-Streak(TM) and subsided only when the drunk girls to the right of me had their squeal-full. Another tall guy moved in on the left and not that he was blocking my view, but I was really beginning to reassess my fondness of altitudeinally advanced men. The pot kicked in from halftime and I thought about losing my necklace in this weird crowd of people and then about having a bag full of half-written term paper stored on a half-ex boyfriend’s laptop in my car that was parked on an unlit Koreatown street and my anxiety went through the roof. I felt like I was in the wrong place and the wrong time was about to happen, so I bid adieu and just left. When I got to my ride, the doors were unlocked. Creepy or a sign, I couldn’t tell. I really didn’t care if I saw Wolfmother—I’d rather listen to the CD than watch Myspace fans and UCR graduates mix together in a listless throb-pit only to be awakened by a Slash cameo during the encore. Way harsh, Tai? Whatever, I’m Audi.




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