It's how all the big-time holiday parties work: you hope for the Shins, pray for the Flaming Lips and prepare yourself for Beck. And then, after standing in line for 40 minutes on the third level of a parking structure, you walk to the fourth level and enter a world of bottomless drinks, fake snow, kiddie choo-choo trains, photo booths, Hot Dog on a Stick girls, funnel cakes, camels and midgets.
At least that's how it is in the world of Paul Frank: when you wake up the next morning, you can barely speak (let alone force yourself to puke) and it's then that you remember who actually played. Wolfmother. Wolfmother, who don't rock half so much as just exist, and who were actually pretty okay, but then again—bottomless drinks. They played the hits, I guess—”Woooooooooman!” was last—but really, the midgets (by which I mean Paul Frank's unfortunate decision to hire them as elves) were far more interesting.
“So they're like the Darkness?” a friend asked before the show. Answer? Yes and no. Yes, they play over-the-top licks in that vaguely '70s vein. No, they aren't very entertaining. “Sweet! Now that the band's playing, there'll be shorter lines at the bar!” another friend observed as the set began. Turns out not so much: some bands play stuff like this, and people go nuts (Zeppelin). Wolfmother isn't one of those bands. And yet: the lead singer does have a lot of hair.
If you were among the masses at the Paul Frank party, I feel your pain—how many times did you puke this morning? I was at 11 by last count. Seriously great party, with serious fun to be had. But if you weren't there, don't worry. There's always next year: special guests Jet! Plus actual live monkeys! In cages!
