Eddie, Dave, Alex and Wolfie in NYC

It must have been around 8:40 or so by the time I finally located the bar in Madison Square Garden where I could get liquor. The home of the New York Rangers had beer everywhere, of course, but only the bar had whiskey. I'd have plenty of time to grab a couple Jamesons, head back to our seats above the right side of the stage and wait for the opening act to go on.

Sound from the main auditorium trickled into the bar. "Hey, is that VH playin?"

"Naw," I said, looking up at one of the ubiquitous middle-aged white baseball cap wearin’ jarheads who had flooded the venue that night for the long-awaited Van Halen show. "There's an opening act." I'd confirmed that with three or four security guys; plus there was a T-shirt for sale featuring whoever the opening act was at the merch table. There'd better be a goddam opener.

Well, the drinks came in the next minute or two, and I hightailed it outta there heading back to the auditorium, as VH's cover of the Kinks’s “You Really Got Me” became more and more audible. "Fuck! Damn it! ARGGGHHH!" It wasn't supposed to happen like this!

So, that was how the show started for me. Turned out the "opening act" was the DJ playing the crap before the band took the stage.

To describe what we heard that night, I'm not going to rattle off a set list or lay down any of that tediously pompous rock criticism type stuff I can't stand. But I can offer a glimpse into what I experienced and dug the most.

I’ll Wait… and Wait… and Wait
My overall conclusion is there's no way to compare this show to any other. I mean, not only am I accustomed to seeing and hearing bands in bars and small clubs, we’d anticipated this show for years. This was Van Halen playing with the only vocalist that counted: David Lee Roth. This was The Eddie Van Halen. The Alex Van Halen. Living legends!

The only non-original member was Wolfgang, Eddie’s teenage son, replacing Michael Anthony. The only thing we’d really be missing there were Anthony’s awesome high-end backup vocals. Yeah, I definitely did miss those.

The true test, in addition to how they sounded (really, really great), would be their stage presence. Would the notoriously feuding Eddie and Dave last through the show without at least sneering at one another? Yes! Indeed, Dave and Eddie were all smiles, literally. Eddie had a giant grin on his face the whole time. And surely that was partly ‘cause his young son was on stage with him at Madison Square Garden, but so be it.

Hammer On
Musically, the highlight for me was the obvious one: Eddie’s extended guitar solo interlude. At one point in the show he was left onstage alone, sitting on an amp (I think), tugging on a smoke. He stamped it out with his red sneaker (Converse?) and began fiddling. That soon erupted into a powerful, sometimes raging solo, hammer-ons galore.

His brother had done his requisite drum solo earlier. Both lasted longer than I would have expected, and I have to say I was pleased by that since before I had assumed giant shows like these were created with the lowest common denominator in mind rather than the true appreciator of the musicianship involved. OK, it’s not like these guys were playing avant-garde jazz or anything, but you know what I mean.

They played all the tunes you wanted to hear: 1984 classics like “Hot for Teacher” and “Panama,” early stuff like “Everybody Wants Some,” less-expected songs like “Little Dreamer” and “Little Guitars” (always one of my faves). I think I liked “Ain’t Talkin’ ‘Bout Love” the best though. It hit me that way, just kicked in right.

Pasadena and a Dude Named Kenny
We’d heard from a friend of a friend a week or so earlier that when he caught the tour elsewhere, Dave didn’t address the crowd. Not so for us. The moment I loved most was one of his orchestrated spiels. It came during his quasi-solo, during which he played his signature tune, “Ice Cream Man,” acoustic guitar in hand. His intro, I’m sure mostly scripted, was a tale of youthful innocence and teen lust. Kids getting high in somebody’s tree house, a dude named “Kenny” who lived above the garage, somethin’ like that. Somebody in the neighborhood parked his ice cream truck in the driveway every night. Whatever -- the typical Dave rambling ya gotta love.

“I grew up in Pasadena, California,” he announced. “You know -- the suburbs -- where they tear out all the trees and name the streets after ‘em.” It went somethin’ like that. I’ve been repeating that line to people since the show, but most people just smirk. They don’t dig it as much as I do. Then again, it’s me saying it, not the man with the silver tongue.

Rock ‘n’ Roll Snow Globe
I expected not to like a few things. The distracting giant screen featuring close-ups of the band I could do without, but folks sitting in the nose-bleeds probably appreciated it. My biggest beef: the damn piped-in synthesizer. Two songs demand keyboards – “I’ll Wait” and the encore, “Jump.” Rather than get a real live keyboardist to play Eddie’s part, the synthesizer parts were canned and played through the sound system. There were times when things weren’t perfectly synced, and just sounded off to me. I was annoyed with that, even though I enjoyed hearing both tunes.

Before “Jump,” though, the crowd was doused with confetti, out of which Dave emerged on a giant, inflatable microphone, larger than life. It felt like we were all in a giant rock ‘n’ roll snow globe.

One totally unexpected highlight was chatting with Craig Wedren of Shudder to Think fame after the show. I passed by him on my way to the bathroom and peeked back out, “Didn’t you used to sing for Shudder to Think?” Yep. Super cool guy. He, by the way, loved “I’ll Wait.” So what the hell do I know.

Black Lips Can Still Sniff My Left Tit

While I digest Tuesday's awesome Van Halen show in preparation for a review on this here blog, I figured I'd re-post something I wrote almost three years ago. It's a rant about The Black Lips. Those little pissants have gotten pretty popular since then, despite, or perhaps thanks to, their mediocrity. I described my encounter with the band in this December 2004 post entitled, "The Black Lips Can Sniff My Left Tit":

Strong words, I know, but well-deserving in my never humble opinion. Last night we hit the Wowsville going away shindig at Siberia. All the bands were fun, and although I was feelin' a bit knackered I was havin' a cool time. The last band, The Black Lips (God knows why they went on after the far superior and better known Little Killers), is a contingent of marginally talented high school kids (maybe they've reached college age by now, not sure) who play mediocre jingly stones style stuff. Nuthin' special at all, but for some reason they've established an incomprehensible but small following, probably 'cause they're kids, therefore a novelty.

So, they take the stage and the barely legal suicide girls in attendance, slimy bud-quaffin' rock 'n' rollers and the like go nuts. Hey, still no sweat -- that is until, mid-song #1, some ASSHOLE decides to toss a lit (lighted -- whatever) firecracker into the crowd. I think it was one of the band members. Anyway, the thing crackled and popped and sparked every which way, clearing the crowd away from its landing pad and stinkin' up the joint in the process.

Call me crazy, but I don't appreciate senselessly aggressive acts approved under the guise of rebellious fun. This type of shit is akin to some big, drunk bruiser starting a violent one-man mosh pit or somebody throwin' a bottle at the band. It's obnoxious and juvenile and gets my Italian/Irish blood boiling!

That's why all those snickering little fuckers pleased with their forced debauchery can sniff my left tit.

Drunk on McFlurries and Wonder Bread Avant-Garde

Over the years I've grown more and more accustomed to being older than a lot of people at shows, but last night I felt like I could have been a parent to some of the kids at The Live Ones gig. I mean, honestly, I don't remember the last time I've seen a set of braces at a rock 'n' roll show, much less a half-eaten McDonald's McFlurry where a beer oughta be.

Of course they were all there for the bands sandwiching my fave three-piece, the last one in particular, I think. All I caught of the first act, Runny, was the finale, starring the singer in nothing but a rainbow thong. But those sorts of antics are par for the course at a lot of shows, so no big shocker there. I have a feeling he was sans clothing for the whole set actually, after checking out their site.

The last act was a true spectacle, complete with primary colored superhero get-ups, an inflatable tiger and human bowling. Needless to say they're Japanese.

Peelander Z refer to their brand of performance as "Japanese action comic punk." They kind of play music, when they're not leaping around the stage and into the crowd, performing absurdist feats to the soundtrack of their recorded tunes. Someone commenting on their MySpace page called them Power Rangers on crack, which is a pretty good description -- or maybe crystal meth.

In addition to luring teeny-boppers, they also attract creepy middle-aged kooks who wear T-shirts featuring photos of themselves doing Tae Kwon Do.



The human bowling thing was pretty cool though, I've gotta admit. They racked up a set of pins in the middle of the crowd. Then one of the Peelanders wearing a tall stuffed hat resembling a bowling pin -- and eerily reminiscent of the Pope's headgear -- launched himself onto the makeshift lane. Entertaining whilst sipping a whiskey, I must say.

As for The Live Ones, who provided the much needed meat between those two slices of Wonder Bread avant-garde, they sounded great. They seem to really be hitting a stride lately. For one thing, they've got a new bassist. (Or should I say another new bassist; Brett's the fifth regular bassist they've had since I started following them 4 years ago). He's really good, too.

They've got a few new tunes I'm lovin', especially this total metal number called "Don't Look Down." Mike gets full-on Dio when he sings that one. It's so metal it induces the dreaded "white man's overbite." Well, it does for me, anyway, but I'm a dork, so that's no surprise.

Speaking of white man's overbite inducement, the long-awaited Van Halen show is Tuesday night!

Pundit Schmundit

Don't ever buy what the pundit has to say. There's almost always somebody out there who knows a helluva lot more and is more astute and more articulate. But because that person doesn't have some pretentious abbreviation following his name, he doesn't get called for an interview. Or better yet, he doesn't want to be called 'cause he's not an attention-hungry media whore.

It's like my mom used to say, "B.S. stands for "Bull Shit," M.S. means "More Shit" and PHD stands for "Piled Higher and Deeper." Yeah, she taught me good.

Sorry, just had to get that off my chest. Now back to rock 'n' roll and coooooookies.