Photo courtesy Geffen RecordsHouse of Blues, Anaheim
Saturday, Oct. 8
Burt totally wanted to leave, but he never said so. He's good like that. And we loved Electric Eel, three Japanese dudes who started with “Iron Man,” went on to cover Christian Death's “You Bastard” and ended with “Iron Man.” The singer looked exactly—but exactly—like Weekly music editor Chris Ziegler, if Chris Ziegler were Japanese and slightly healthier (and could balance a Gretsch in his mouth), and the shirtless, buff, Mohawked drummer pulled a long sock out of his fly and began to stroke it like we were about to get a bukkake flick. I didn't pay any attention to the third guy. They were adorable, even though some ass next to us kept yelling, “Lock and Loll!” I wanted to take them home and keep them as pets, which is the same way I feel about Shonen Knife, who are also Japanese and also adorable, but they sing about food. Is that racist, do you think? For the record, the singer's R's were perfect. Twat.
The whole thing, though, was flat-out bizarre. The House of Blues had rented out its large patio to Millikan '85's class reunion, so the sold-out show of rampaging bros had no outlet but bouncing into each other, while a between-show recording informed us chirpily that stage diving and moshing could lead to injury and ejection.
Yeah, that was effective.
When Bloodhound Gang singer Jimmy Pop, who must have fattened up like a Christmas goose, as he was wearing a zipped-up track suit to everyone else's getups of muttonchops and abs, asked the crowd to start nailing Evil Jared Hasselhoff with loogies, the people summoned their inner phlegm. But Evil Jared Hasselhoff, who's like a sexy Cletis, didn't even wipe off the many gobs; he did a Jaeger bong and was soon puking on Jimmy Pop, on purpose, his fingers mining his throat for gold, and it was orange and sprayed really far, and Burt, who's intelligent and not at all a bro, was horrified. I was horrified too, but I kind of liked the threat of it all, mostly because after I got sucked into the pit a couple of times, three big dudes (and Burt) planted themselves in front of me like they were a big, black-clad Trojan and the pit was the disease. That place was fucking danger.
We scattered by about 11:30 p.m., during whatever song it is that the crowd was chanting “I need a new vagina” to, because I wasn't really into GG Allin while he was alive, and I no longer cared whether I was gonna hear “Fire Water Burn” (The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire, etc.) or “The Bad Touch” (Love, the kind you clean up with a mop and bucket/Like the lost catacombs of Egypt only God knows where we stuck it), and the Bloodhound Gang's Globetwatting Tour and Bro-arama was really no place for someone who only wanted to hear the hits.
