Concert Review: Morrissey

Since my first concert, way back in June of 1988 (guess who that was), I've seen more than a hundred concerts, but there are few artists that I've seen more than a handful of times. Morrissey is one of them. I've seen him so many times, in fact, that my mother actually recognized his name when I told her I was on my way to see him at the Hollywood Bowl. (To put this in perspective, she still doesn't know who Nine Inch Nails or Bjork is.)

My many Moz concerts have had their moments. When I saw him at the Palace of Auburn Hills, back when I was in college at UM, I landed choice floor seats and snuck up so close his sweat sprayed me when he whipped the mic around in his humble trademark move. Near the end of the show, he bared his chest (this was before his pudgy phase) and then -- and I swear this -- he looked straight at me as he flung his shirt into the crowd. I'm fortunate to be taller than the average greaser, and so caught the sleeve just before a multitude of hands ripped it to shreds faster than you could recite one of his song titles (admittedly, a long time). I managed to cling to a small blue-checked patch, which I kept sealed in a plastic baggy above my desk for many years. (Note to self: Check hope chest for baggy next time I'm back at Mom's.)

A few years earlier, during my high school years on Long Island, I also managed to weasel my way to the front, this time just as the Jones Beach crowd began to swarm the stage. I've never felt the urge to ensnare one of my idols in a bear hug -- at least, not enough to catapult myself over a moat of security thugs. But when the five rows behind you decide to simultaneously rush the stage, there's not much you can do but ride the tide -- that is, until a meaty-handed thug shoves you by the face back into the sweaty, teeming masses from whence you came. The highlight of the event came hours later, while my friend and I huddled by my phone to relate the tale to the local radio station. Had my high school been the least bit cool, I would have had classmates congratulating me for my call-in the next day. But dirtbags, JAPs, and stoners didn't listen to way-cool WDRE (ne WLIR).

Although my experience at the Hollywood Bowl show this past Friday was much more mellow than any of my melodramatic Moz encounters of years past, it was still memorable. The two friends with me put up with my narrating ("This is the song based on the Krays!" "This is the song he stopped in the middle of when we rushed the stage back in '91!" "He used to live in LA, you know. That's why all the references."), which I couldn't help doing despite how much it bothers me when others do so. After about five songs I stopped, but more because of the waves of nostalgia than due to any notion of propriety.

It was more than just the music, the pop-culture-laden references, and memories of concerts of yore. In the middle of the concert, I found myself texting, for Chrissake. "At a Morrissey concert. Wish you were here," I pinged a friend up north. Due to a mutual loss, his music means more to us than it should. And last Friday night, the emotions came swelling back -- but kindly, this time. And for the first time in nearly ten years, I listened to "Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want" with a smile, even if the lyrics pleated otherwise.

Coachella: Answering the Question "How Many Paris Hilton Wannabes Can You Fit on a Polo Field"

The answer to this post's title: too many. I saw more pin-straight, bleached-blonde 20-something wannabes with oversized '70s sunglasses than I'd ever thought I could stomach in a two-day period (I missed Friday, dagnabbit). But what I didn't see was more of the over-the-top tattoos that I'd witnessed the previous year. The 2007 crowd may have been toned down in body art (piercings were also less on display), but the skin parade was still out in full force. As were androgynous dancers with suspect moves.

And as I'm way late in writing anything about Coachella, unlike my cohort Tixgirl, with her uber-cache of photos, I'll keep this short. My first year in many without a photo press pass means I can only flaunt images of the hoi polloi. But when I attempted to take pictures of an ivy-patterned tattoo emblazoned on the exposed left side of a particular Coachella-goer, I was greeted with a frosty, "I'd prefer you didn't." So I abandoned my tattoo safari. And seeing as I wasn't actually working the event for once, I reveled in securing shady spots around the perimeter and engaging in people watching -- and avoiding any unnecessary UV rays, a Coachella sport if ever there was one.

Since I'm celebrity blind, I had only one "star" spotting: Jason Acuña, aka "Wee-Man" from Jackass infamy. I was lounging bourgeoise like in the VIP section when he sallied through with a five-foot femme on his arm. Tixgirl spotted many other celebs, but I wouldn't have known them had they slapped me in the face for violating any of my own self-appointed rules.

Dubious fashion rules were in effect, as evidenced by the pink-tutu'd 50-something male and various females wearing synthetic materials too tight for their physique. Don't these people have friends to tell them when they're making fools of themselves? (This was the most-asked question of the weekend, after "Why didn't Placebo warrant a nighttime set?" and "When did Speedos become acceptable outside Europe?").

This year, the concert promoters took a leap ahead and offered fans the chance to both recycle and save some duckets by redeeming 10 empty water bottles for one full one, thus saving trash-can seekers some two bucks in savings. Kudos to those who came up with this eco-conscious scheme. Double kudos to those who came up with ingenious ways to both recycle and stay out of ray's harm (via recycled pizza boxes).

I won't go into in-depth concert reviews, mainly because I'm too late in doing so and that all I now have to say is "Travis rules!" and "I finally saw Willie Nelson live!", but I will reiterate what I said last year, and the year before, and the year before that: This was my last Coachella.

Maybe I've finally grown old. Maybe 100F+ degree heat among mobs of unshowered emo fans has lost its appeal. Or maybe the allure of attending such a notorious event sans press credentials has made me jaded. Whatever it may be, I'm declaring this my final Coachella.

Until the next lineup is announced.

Coachella Survival Guide

So, you're going to Coachella, you crazy bastard. Are you ready for the sweat-soaked crowds, bipolar temperatures, the endless lines? You betcha.

Every year I go, and every year I swear it'll be my last. Then the next year's lineup is announced and, somehow, I find myself with tickets in hand, ready to brave the relentless sun and mobs of pierced-lip weirdos. And for what? For a few blissful days of kickass bands that leave me wanting more way after the last note fades into the distant rose-hued hills.

I'm still going this year, despite the fact I'm no longer officially "press," which means I'm now sans backstage and VIP passes, willing to mingle with the hoi polloi coated in several layers of dusty perspiration. Many -- the campers -- will have gone without showers for days. And still, I'll press through the crowds, hoping not for a closeup glance of my idols du jour but rather for that ephermeral moment of one-ness that was once found only in places of worship, but which can now be occasionally enjoyed at modern-day rock concerts, conditions willing.

And with that, I offer you my novice advice, garnered from four years' worth of Coachella'ing.

What to Bring

• Sunscreen: It's the friggin' desert, people. Add an exponent to the SPF.
  
• Comfortable Shoes: This is not a catwalk. Leave the heels at home. I usually opt for Tevas, though I may bring along my comfy-soled Skechers this time.
  
• Ear Plugs: It's a large field, meaning the music is going to be sonic. If you're thinking of getting anywhere near the stage, you'll want some squishy styrofoam protecting your tympanic membrane. Tinnitus ain't fun.
  
• Hat: Sometimes SPF isn't enough.
  
• Small Backpack: "Small" is relative, but you'll want something that'll get by security. You'll have to trek four miles back to your car/campsite if it'll hold more than a sweatshirt. And, yes, it'll be searched.
  
• Light Jacket: I didn't use mine at all last year, but the year before I coughed up $50 for an extra layer that I ended up wearing once, just to make it through Nine Inch Nails' wind-blown set.
  
• Cash: I've heard rumors the Mafia owns the ATMs. It's called usury, but the 909 is just a step above Thunderdome.
  
• Chapstick: Unless you like it when your lips bleed.
  
• GPS/Map of the Area: Very helpful for avoiding the main roads (the ones named after presidents) and weaseling through the neighborhoods ahead of the car caravans.
  
• Small Camera: Nothing that says "pro," i.e., it can't have a removable lens. Video cameras are not allowed.
  
• Small Pharmacy: Not the illegal kind, just the basic aspirin and such. There are "general stores" set up around the grounds, and they're actually not terribly unreasonable, but if you're partial to Advil over Tylenol, you'll want your own stash.
  
• Tickets: Last year, a friend forgot hers -- in New York. But if you purchased yours through Ticketmaster, you can actually get replacements. It takes a fair amount of phone calls and a wait in the abysmally long ticket line, but she got in without much ado. (Maybe that's what those "convenience" charges are for.)
  

What to Do:

• Pick a Meeting Place: Reception sucks, so it's best to set a time/place to meet your pals. Pick someplace other than the Tesla coil, otherwise you might as well tell them to meet you to the left of the main stage.
  
• Wear a Bathing Suit: Then dress in layers. This way you can frolic in the misting tents or hose yourself off whenever you feel like it.
  
• Remember Where You Parked: I'm saying this from experience.
  
• Refill Your Water Bottles: You won't have to take out equity in your mobile home, plus it's easier on the environment.
  
• Plan Your Schedule: You'll inevitably change it once you get there, but it's good to go in with a strategy. Ask yourself: In ten years, will I be happier that I saw Willie Nelson, or that up-and-coming British band with the asinine name?
  
• Don't Block My View: This is the best tip I can give you. I've seen many a fight break out over some bikini-clad chick on her simian boyfriend's shoulders, or some giddy shutterbug a thousand yards from the stage holding his camera in front of someone's face for an indistinguishable shot of some crappy lo-fi band. If you're one of these people, you deserve whatever you get. Especially if it's my view you're blocking.
  

Concert Review: Muse at Great Western Forum

I'm taking a page from my pal TixGirl's blog to add a concert review to the ol' blogging mix. I was inspired to do so not just because I'm going through concert-reviewing withdrawal, having given that up when I quit the CityGuide gig back in December, but because last night's show was phantasmagorical.

I've been in love with Muse since a friend gave me a copy of the band's Absolution album just over a year ago. It quickly became one of the few CDs I just couldn't seem to take off repeat; had it been a cassette, it would have warped to near nothingness in the first few weeks I had it.

Then came Black Holes and Revelations, and once again I was floored in a way I haven't been in years. Their sound re-instilled my faith in the music scene, which had been waning since, oh, 1994 or so. Sure, I've had my occasional doses of The Killers, Suede, and a handful of other soul-lifting bands. But there was something about Muse -- the Queen-like anthems, the multi-layered sound -- that made me yearn for more. And so I didn't hesitate to whip out the plastic to make my first concert-ticket purchase in several years. (My last job had also spoiled me with more press passes than I could handle.)

Because I first saw Muse with my pal Nne at KROQ's Inland Invasion a few years back, I invited her along for another ride. We trekked down to Inglewood for our virgin trip to the Forum (aka, the LA venue most in need of a facelift), stopping at Porky's BBQ ($2.99 for a ginormous salad? Sure, I'll go back) to fuel up before the big show.

Since I didn't plan on writing a review, I didn't bother to take notes, like I once did more studiously than I ever had for any college class. So I'll just sum it up by saying that these guys know how to put on a show. Pyrotechnics and video imagery aside, Matthew Bellamy and company simply rawk like no one's business. Halfway through the performance, I was tired just from watching Bellamy bound about the stage, switching instruments every other stanza.

For once, I lucked out. Our section was pretty laidback, so although we sat down a few times, we could still see because, well, the other old farts like us were also resting their dogs. Although I couldn't watch the sweat pour off the band member's faces, I was much more comfortable looking down on the mosh pit, and I couldn't believe there'd been a time where I would have killed to be smack dab in the middle of the sweaty, swarming mass of delinquents shoving each other.

To top it all off, the trio performed not one, but two sets of encores, with at least three songs in each set. In all, the concert lasted more than two hours. Considering the distance to the stage, I got some pretty good shots and video, mainly due to the stageside screens and killer stage visuals. Near the end of the concerts, security guards tossed a half dozen confetti-filled balloons into the crowd, which made for some awesome snaps.

During one ballad, when the arena was aglow with swaying green cell phones, like a nighttime sea come to life with bioluminescence, Nne stopped herself before commenting on the handful of odd yellow lights in the audience. "I just realized those are lighters." My, how concert-going has changed. At least with Muse, it's for the better.

Now, can someone tell me why my videos look so crappy and pixelated when I upload them? Is it because they're AVI files?