| Soul Brains.House of Blues.3.4.00 | ||
| The show is over. Obviously the show is over if I'm writing
about it and you're reading this. I loved it. Why beat around
the bush when all the quail flew off hours ago anyway?
Before the show was over, before the show started, before the beer was bought and the car loaded I was skeptical. I wasn't sure if I wanted to go see a bunch of 40 year old plus aging hardcore grand daddies gone reggae on their most recent studio offerings. Hell, they don't even have the same name. Soul Brains? I really was expecting the worst. Did the Bad Brains still exist or were these the same four guys, now aged and wizened, divorced from the past? For the first song of the set they deliberately and tellingly broke into the vault and delivered "ATTITUDE" with the fierce crunching intensity it had when it first appeared on vinyl eighteen years ago. Yeah, that's right, eighteen. The show was twenty-one up so nobody except the wrongfully admitted were younger than the oldest songs, but I'm jumping ahead in the night chronologically speaking, not in the order of any importance. There was an opening act. They played reggae, and covered Minor Threat's name sake song. I don't know who they were or why they were there. I guess it has something to do with who you know, ass kissing and cock sucking or so I've been told. I'm not saying they should have their lilly asses kicked up and down the Sunset Strip under charges of cultural rape, but I am saying they were the kind of opening act who drew in an applause when they announced the commencement of their last song. They deserve some kudos for being in tune. Between their last song and the Soul ( not "Bad" ) Brains kicking into "Attitude," about an half hour elapsed which gave enough time to check out Dan Aykroyd's tin shack on the Sunset Strip. The House Of Blues from the outside is supposed to appear to be an old ramshackle Mississippi delta tin barn. It may or may not actually look like one. A multi-level wooden front porch sprawls out from the building's front. It is this area that provides space for ticket booths and smokers' patio since the House Of Blues is a smoke free facility, and it was free of tobacco smoke, at any rate. The interior of the shack has a relaxing natural feel to it as it's done primarily in earth tones. The art work has a southern mexican fried voodoo appeal that suits the club quite nicely. The upstairs forms a horseshoe over-look from which the stage is visible at every point along the rail. It's set up well, but if you really want to go see a show at the House Of Blues you'll have to weigh your desire to see the band against ticket price. For the Bad/Soul Brains: $23. Parking: $10 if you go with the valet service at the club, otherwise, happy hunting. Drinks: well, that of course depends, but a twelve ounce Bud runs $3.75 and an eight ounce Jack and cola gets you at $6.25 per, and they're not what even a light weight would call stiff. Door check search is fairly nonexistent so sneak in a hip flask if you're thrifty minded and care for a drink. I positioned myself up against the stage barrier, directly in front of Dr. Know. I remain here for the entire show. I know if the song will be in their jingly-jangly reggae style or old school hardcore assault before they begin each song depending on whether or not Dr. Know is handed his blue Ibanez with white pick guard ( reggae ) or black Ibanez with red, yellow and green pick ups ( harder ). When he picks up the latter and strums an open chord I brace myself for the slam bang punk rock action to come from the eager mohawked lads and lasses positioned front and center for optimum dancing. Thus I was never to jolted when a song like "Jah Love" would be immediately predecessed by a song like, say, "Pay To Cum." Peculiarly, H.R.'s posture, enthusiasm, and entire demeanor would remain stagnant, without variation, no matter what the song or style he would remain low-key, bright eyed and smiling his big smile. He has amazing presence, dressed in white robes with gold threaded patterns and a gold foil wrapped stove pipe hat with a white eight pointed star at it's helm perched upon his head like the royal crown for his hardcore majesty. The trade mark thickly knotted dreadlocks hang out from under the hat, but remain motionless clumps through out the set. H.R. stands. H.R. stands close to the mic stand. H.R. stands back by the drums. H.R. smiles at the crowd. H.R. gives the crowd the peace sign. A look of mild trepidation crosses his face and he backs off from the front of the stage when the kids start dancing with too much vigor. Is it really fear? Yes, it is. The aggressive catharsis that is a punk rock show has somehow become alien to H.R. I have an idea why. The idea that it might be drug related is fomented when "Right Brigade" gives way to the slow reggae, full body vibrating bass thump of "Day Tripper." All the band members play with the tightness and precision one would expect after close to twenty years together, and through the haze of what must be some of the finest marijuana, each man is aware of only the moment, only their guitar, their bass, their drums, their voice and how it all commingles and interacts with the other sounds and becomes one. The crowd is secondary and barely exists. The Bad Brains' ability to become mesmerized with their own songs and playing acts as a contagion and soon the crowd isn't aware of itself either. These thoughts come to be either out of truth or the unavoidable contact high I was getting from the wafting clouds of burning hemp. "Sailin' On" indeed. After a lengthy reggae jam towards the end of the show they pumped the energy levels back up, first hitting hard with "Pay To Cum," then pulling back on the throttle a bit with "Sacred Love" to finally send the crowd into a whirlwind of joyous bumping, jumping, slamming and singing with the title track from their best album "I Against I." Once the final notes of "I Against I" passed, the Soul Brains, who are still very much the Bad Brains, cleared the stage, the curtain was pulled and the lengthy attempt by the fans to coax an encore out of the group went unheeded, but nobody really needed more anyway. The crowd was left high and the Bad Brains delivered a full and satisfying set that spanned their careers as one of the finest marks on the hardcore, punk, and, despite my personal tastes, reggae scenes.
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