Here's something you might be interested in.
Ask a Hipster — Advice you didn't know you needed
Big Screen — Movie commentary
Blurt — Music's inside track
Booze News — San Diego spirits
Classical Music — Immortal beauty
Classifieds — Free and easy
Cover Stories — Front-page features
Drinks All Around — Bartenders' drink recipes
Excerpts — Literary and spiritual excerpts
Feast! — Food & drink reviews
Feature Stories — Local news & stories
Fishing Report — What’s getting hooked from ship and shore
From the Archives — Spotlight on the past
Golden Dreams — Talk of the town
The Gonzo Report — Making the musical scene, or at least reporting from it
Letters — Our inbox
Movies@Home — Local movie buffs share favorites
Movie Reviews — Our critics' picks and pans
Musician Interviews — Up close with local artists
Neighborhood News from Stringers — Hyperlocal news
News Ticker — News & politics
Obermeyer — San Diego politics illustrated
Outdoors — Weekly changes in flora and fauna
Overheard in San Diego — Eavesdropping illustrated
Poetry — The old and the new
Reader Travel — Travel section built by travelers
Reading — The hunt for intellectuals
Roam-O-Rama — SoCal's best hiking/biking trails
San Diego Beer — Inside San Diego suds
SD on the QT — Almost factual news
Sheep and Goats — Places of worship
Special Issues — The best of
Street Style — San Diego streets have style
Surf Diego — Real stories from those braving the waves
Theater — On stage in San Diego this week
Tin Fork — Silver spoon alternative
Under the Radar — Matt Potter's undercover work
Unforgettable — Long-ago San Diego
Unreal Estate — San Diego's priciest pads
Your Week — Daily event picks
Gonzo Report: Memories of leaping and Lemmy
A clean scene at the House of Blues
No hate please, we’re punk fans.
A short trolley ride brings me to San Diego’s House of Blues, where a video monitor at the entryway — emblematic of the modern concert venue — warns “Hate will not be tolerated here!” The sign discourages racist, homophobic, sexist or “generally intolerant actions,” with instructions to notify management if any fan or staff engages in such behavior. I endorse the sentiment, but it strikes me as odd to tattle instead of simply reacting. Then again, I’m not the target of those particular brands of assholism. The sign next offers a commercial that assures me the venue is sanitary, because it’s cleaned with Clorox products. I wonder if the company provides cleansing supplies to the venue in return for free commercials, then I burst out laughing at the next video signage: a commercial for personal loans. I remark to no one that, since House of Blues is a piece of the Live Nation monopoly with its inflated “service fees,” a lot of music lovers might need one of those loans to afford tickets for the next mega-tour. (“My mortgage for Taylor Swift tix!”) A blue-shirted staff member hurries me along.
I discover a new (to me) band called The Last Gang and purchase one of their shirts, because nothing shows support like cash — or rather, a debit card, since this is a “contactless” venue. I’m so ecstatic at discovering new music that I’m not affected by the cheese crisis at the bar. The crisis: I need some carbs to keep my energy up for the next two bands, so I order a soft pretzel, only to have the bartender apologize for not having any cheese to go with it. He offers me free refills on my diet Pepsi. Three other customers decline any purchase if it lacks their condiment of choice; I seem to be the only person at the bar capable of eating a plain pretzel. One couple is appalled enough at the thought that they pressure the bartender to locate some cheese. Perhaps upstairs? The restaurant? The bartender offers them pizza — because it has cheese — and they leave, inexplicably despondent. Who gets disappointed by pizza?
The House of Blues was built with music lovers in mind, and the sound can be heard loud and clear from everywhere tonight. Floor tickets are general admission; for those who need a break or choose not to stand, there’s the Delta Lounge, a side room with a bar and seating, where the show plays on a live monitor. Upstairs is another bar and “V.I.P. seating” for those who wish to sit and watch the performance. HOB staffer Lyndsey wears a blue jacket but proves much cooler than the jumpy counterpart below, giving me the okay to shoot a pic from the balcony when the headliner starts. She shares a memory of someone trying to get into a performance by Japanese rockers Band–Maid with a sex doll. The doll wasn’t admitted, because it was classified as an oversized item.
San Diego is represented onstage by El Vez, aka The Mexican Elvis, and the headliners, Me First and the Gimme Gimmes, with Hot Snakes/Rocket from the Crypt/Pitchfork/Drive Like Jehu guitarist John Reis. Between sets, my Motorhead back-patch inspires conversations. I discuss seeing them live at this very venue, and am reminded of my mortality when the people who have engaged me express sorrow that they never saw the band before frontman Lemmy died.
I snap my picture from the balcony and look at the V.I.P. seats, silently judging anyone who can sit for a punk show — even though I should accept that I may be up in that balcony someday, enjoying the show in my own way, given my own trajectory. My pit days are over; the last time I leapt off a stage was at the 9:30 Club during a Corrosion of Conformity and Prong show. The lengthy healing process was enough to serve as prohibition against such antics in the future. As it is, even my jumping up and down on the HOB concrete floor will hurt when I wake up, and my throat will be sore from scream-singing along to adrenaline-charged versions of John Denver songs — things I’m free to do because staff made this show asshole-proof. I’m already feeling it, even as I wait for my ride home (the trolley stopped running), standing amidst a different downtown than I remember.
It’s quieter, cleaner, and safer down here now. Like the venue, with its good manners and contactless transactions. It occurs to me that, due to my age, I’ve seen more shows than I have left to see. But at least I won’t regret missing Lemmy before he died.
Here's something you might be interested in.
Gonzo Report: Memories of leaping and Lemmy
A clean scene at the House of Blues
Gonzo Report: Memories of leaping and Lemmy
A clean scene at the House of Blues
No hate please, we’re punk fans.
A short trolley ride brings me to San Diego’s House of Blues, where a video monitor at the entryway — emblematic of the modern concert venue — warns “Hate will not be tolerated here!” The sign discourages racist, homophobic, sexist or “generally intolerant actions,” with instructions to notify management if any fan or staff engages in such behavior. I endorse the sentiment, but it strikes me as odd to tattle instead of simply reacting. Then again, I’m not the target of those particular brands of assholism. The sign next offers a commercial that assures me the venue is sanitary, because it’s cleaned with Clorox products. I wonder if the company provides cleansing supplies to the venue in return for free commercials, then I burst out laughing at the next video signage: a commercial for personal loans. I remark to no one that, since House of Blues is a piece of the Live Nation monopoly with its inflated “service fees,” a lot of music lovers might need one of those loans to afford tickets for the next mega-tour. (“My mortgage for Taylor Swift tix!”) A blue-shirted staff member hurries me along.
I discover a new (to me) band called The Last Gang and purchase one of their shirts, because nothing shows support like cash — or rather, a debit card, since this is a “contactless” venue. I’m so ecstatic at discovering new music that I’m not affected by the cheese crisis at the bar. The crisis: I need some carbs to keep my energy up for the next two bands, so I order a soft pretzel, only to have the bartender apologize for not having any cheese to go with it. He offers me free refills on my diet Pepsi. Three other customers decline any purchase if it lacks their condiment of choice; I seem to be the only person at the bar capable of eating a plain pretzel. One couple is appalled enough at the thought that they pressure the bartender to locate some cheese. Perhaps upstairs? The restaurant? The bartender offers them pizza — because it has cheese — and they leave, inexplicably despondent. Who gets disappointed by pizza?
The House of Blues was built with music lovers in mind, and the sound can be heard loud and clear from everywhere tonight. Floor tickets are general admission; for those who need a break or choose not to stand, there’s the Delta Lounge, a side room with a bar and seating, where the show plays on a live monitor. Upstairs is another bar and “V.I.P. seating” for those who wish to sit and watch the performance. HOB staffer Lyndsey wears a blue jacket but proves much cooler than the jumpy counterpart below, giving me the okay to shoot a pic from the balcony when the headliner starts. She shares a memory of someone trying to get into a performance by Japanese rockers Band–Maid with a sex doll. The doll wasn’t admitted, because it was classified as an oversized item.
San Diego is represented onstage by El Vez, aka The Mexican Elvis, and the headliners, Me First and the Gimme Gimmes, with Hot Snakes/Rocket from the Crypt/Pitchfork/Drive Like Jehu guitarist John Reis. Between sets, my Motorhead back-patch inspires conversations. I discuss seeing them live at this very venue, and am reminded of my mortality when the people who have engaged me express sorrow that they never saw the band before frontman Lemmy died.
I snap my picture from the balcony and look at the V.I.P. seats, silently judging anyone who can sit for a punk show — even though I should accept that I may be up in that balcony someday, enjoying the show in my own way, given my own trajectory. My pit days are over; the last time I leapt off a stage was at the 9:30 Club during a Corrosion of Conformity and Prong show. The lengthy healing process was enough to serve as prohibition against such antics in the future. As it is, even my jumping up and down on the HOB concrete floor will hurt when I wake up, and my throat will be sore from scream-singing along to adrenaline-charged versions of John Denver songs — things I’m free to do because staff made this show asshole-proof. I’m already feeling it, even as I wait for my ride home (the trolley stopped running), standing amidst a different downtown than I remember.
It’s quieter, cleaner, and safer down here now. Like the venue, with its good manners and contactless transactions. It occurs to me that, due to my age, I’ve seen more shows than I have left to see. But at least I won’t regret missing Lemmy before he died.
Comments