By Adam Lovinus
By Lilledeshan Bose
By Gabriel San Roman
By Rachel Mattice
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Daniel Kohn
By Nate Jackson
By Mike Seeley
So that's what you indifferent souls missed out on.
Y'know, we'd move up to Portland ourselves if so many OC people wouldn't like that so much. (Rich Kane)
The Fakes, The Crowd
"Come on! Let's go! You can look at [lewd term for the male reproductive organs], and I can look at [lewd term for the female reproductive organs],"1 tempted my always-tasteful friend, trying to drag me out of the house on Saturday night.
"Can't we just go to a movie instead?" I asked. "[Lewd male term]! [Lewd female term]! [Lewd male term]! [Lewd female term]!" he began chanting seductively.
Hell, you can't argue with logic.
And so it was that we went to Club Mesa for a show celebrating the release of The Hostage Situation compilation CD featuring the Numbers, the Smut Peddlers, the Negatives, the Spooky, Instagon, Discontent, the Pushers and the Fakes.
Why my friend chose Club Mesa as the spot where we'd meet our future counterparts is beyond me. There were neither women for him nor men for me (we're boringly hetero like that; my apologies) but simply a miasma of tattoos as far as the eye could see. Tattooed arms touching tattooed shoulders, tattooed fingers clutching tattooed elbows. Guys with tattoos up to their chins wearing bowlers. It was punker than punk, but not punk like young-virile-healthy-skate-rat punk; punk like old-bad-teeth-needle-abuse-tattoo-lots-of-babies punk. Yummy!2
Because so many bands were playing, each band was limited to about 15 minutes. It was like a Weenie Roast of sorts for punk bands you haven't heard of. I, of course, have heard of them, but you haven't. No, you haven't! You're not fooling anyone, you big liar! Just admit it, you haven't heard of them! Why is this such a big deal to you? You're getting all worked up over nothing! For fuck's sake, let it go! Okay, okay, you've heard of them! Jesus!3
"Don't let the clothes fool you—these are rich guys from Newport Beach who drive Porsches and have stripper girlfriends," quipped the MC, introducing the Fakes, the penultimate act but the first one we saw because we're irresponsible and have no conception of time.4 The Fakes played dirgy rumbly hardcore punk that probably sounds really good if you're familiar with the songs but is somewhat inaccessible live. But they were fun to watch, and the singer could jump up and down like no one's business. We just couldn't hum along to the songs, but that's true of about 68 percent of punk music.
The Crowd played last and perfectly captured my jovial mood. "I'm not happy, I'm not happy; I'm not happy here," sang the singer, who was wearing a fuchsia suit that, against the fiery flame-ridden backdrop of the Club Mesa stage, made him look like a surreal clown and/or preacher. It was good, fun, anthemic, kinda British-sounding punk with Scorching Whaling Guitar Solos.
When the singer asked the crowd, "Does anyone watch Blue's Clues?" I remarked to my friend, "That's a man who has children." And that reminded us of our evening's noble mission. And we were off. (Alison M. Rosen)
1. No, not gonads and fallopian tubes.
2. In case we sound picky, allow me to point out that most of the Night of the Living Tattoo People were already paired off.
3. What's your problem, anyway?
4. I got it from my mom. Sorry, Mom.
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