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Gonzo Report: Strictly psychedelic at Casbah’s San Diego Freak Out
Dancing like a Gumby tube-man
SDfreakout: makes you want to dance like Gumby.
Back in May, a Keanu Reeves sighting at the Casbah during a punk rock show featuring locals Doc Hammer lit up social media. I know this because one of my pals posted an Instagram selfie with the famous actor, looking starstruck and freaking out (my friend, not Reeves). Then I freaked out a little myself: I was pissed for not going to the show. But not to worry: I had my own chance to snort the Casbah’s lingering celebrity stardust when I attended the tenth annual San Diego Freak Out.
After I was dropped off by my Uber driver just outside the club. I had an hour to kill, so a stroll down India Street seemed in order. One screaming airplane after another descended over a typically tourist-infested Little Italy Saturday night. On the main strip, dudes looked lost in the universe while their better halves sought a dinner spot in which to spend their vacation dough. I ducked into The Princess Pub to order some kind of IPA and, after paying and tipping, found myself down twelve bucks. Woe was me. (I will say, with beer prices inflating along with everything else, it’s now much easier to simply drink less, which is probably a positive thing.) “Do you wanna start a tab?” the bartender asked me. I kept it open, just in case, but one beer later, I was strolling back down Kettner.
At the door, security checked IDs as well as tickets for the sold-out event. There wasn’t a line when I entered, but the packed hallway under red lights was still alive with a chill-looking horde of hippie animals. I noticed many “More than a Feeling” Boston mustaches and a lot of flowing That ’70s Show hair. If you’ve never been to the Casbah, it can feel like a dark maze as you navigate the hallways. If you’re hammered, it can be even trickier, even though the place isn’t all that big. Give yourself a couple of go-arounds to get the lay of the land, and you should be fine. Unless you’re on LSD or some kind of hallucinogenic, which is what this party had a penetrating feeling of, what with the ’60s psychedelic projection art light show by Stranger Liquids. I felt like I was swimming inside of a warm lava lamp as I ordered the “special” at the bar.
On stage, LA based JJUUJJUU was rocking some Doors-y style of jam that I dug. The bartender, who was equipped with monstrous painted red lips, handed me some kind of sweet drink in a can. “Can you tell me how that tastes? There’s only two-percent alcohol in that drink,” she admitted. Had I known this, I would have opted for something else — anything else. “God, give him a shot at least,” a fellow show-goer at the bar hollered out. The kindly bartender poured me a shot of tequila, on the house, and slid it my way. I spotted the dude who yelled on my behalf, hoisted my shot glass, and gave him a friendly nod before sinking it down.
The final band to play the Freak Out was Wild Wild Wets, a local group that extracts wavy tones with heavy flange, wah-wah grooves, and synthesizers, all tightly bound together to create a sound that made you want to dance like one of those wiggling blow-up Gumby tube-man things you see on car lots. “We want you to dance over and over,” the frontman shouted as the crowd moved like something slippery and viscous. I did as I was told, and kept dancing like Gumby — until I bumped into the table I was dancing next to and knocked over a woman’s drink. “It’s okay,” she yelled over the music. “It was just water, and it was in a plastic cup.” I still felt like a horse’s patoot.
When the Wets exited the stage and slipped outside, the juiced-up crowd began to chant for an encore. The band answered the call, gracing the stage once again until singer Mike Turi could no longer stand. He gave every drop of his energy to this party, and when the final note was fired free, he fell to his back on the stage floor, staring up at a blank ceiling. Even though he was a puddle on the deck at that point, I didn’t think there was any way he was coming down anytime soon.
Here's something you might be interested in.
Gonzo Report: Strictly psychedelic at Casbah’s San Diego Freak Out
Dancing like a Gumby tube-man
Gonzo Report: Strictly psychedelic at Casbah’s San Diego Freak Out
Dancing like a Gumby tube-man
SDfreakout: makes you want to dance like Gumby.
Back in May, a Keanu Reeves sighting at the Casbah during a punk rock show featuring locals Doc Hammer lit up social media. I know this because one of my pals posted an Instagram selfie with the famous actor, looking starstruck and freaking out (my friend, not Reeves). Then I freaked out a little myself: I was pissed for not going to the show. But not to worry: I had my own chance to snort the Casbah’s lingering celebrity stardust when I attended the tenth annual San Diego Freak Out.
After I was dropped off by my Uber driver just outside the club. I had an hour to kill, so a stroll down India Street seemed in order. One screaming airplane after another descended over a typically tourist-infested Little Italy Saturday night. On the main strip, dudes looked lost in the universe while their better halves sought a dinner spot in which to spend their vacation dough. I ducked into The Princess Pub to order some kind of IPA and, after paying and tipping, found myself down twelve bucks. Woe was me. (I will say, with beer prices inflating along with everything else, it’s now much easier to simply drink less, which is probably a positive thing.) “Do you wanna start a tab?” the bartender asked me. I kept it open, just in case, but one beer later, I was strolling back down Kettner.
At the door, security checked IDs as well as tickets for the sold-out event. There wasn’t a line when I entered, but the packed hallway under red lights was still alive with a chill-looking horde of hippie animals. I noticed many “More than a Feeling” Boston mustaches and a lot of flowing That ’70s Show hair. If you’ve never been to the Casbah, it can feel like a dark maze as you navigate the hallways. If you’re hammered, it can be even trickier, even though the place isn’t all that big. Give yourself a couple of go-arounds to get the lay of the land, and you should be fine. Unless you’re on LSD or some kind of hallucinogenic, which is what this party had a penetrating feeling of, what with the ’60s psychedelic projection art light show by Stranger Liquids. I felt like I was swimming inside of a warm lava lamp as I ordered the “special” at the bar.
On stage, LA based JJUUJJUU was rocking some Doors-y style of jam that I dug. The bartender, who was equipped with monstrous painted red lips, handed me some kind of sweet drink in a can. “Can you tell me how that tastes? There’s only two-percent alcohol in that drink,” she admitted. Had I known this, I would have opted for something else — anything else. “God, give him a shot at least,” a fellow show-goer at the bar hollered out. The kindly bartender poured me a shot of tequila, on the house, and slid it my way. I spotted the dude who yelled on my behalf, hoisted my shot glass, and gave him a friendly nod before sinking it down.
The final band to play the Freak Out was Wild Wild Wets, a local group that extracts wavy tones with heavy flange, wah-wah grooves, and synthesizers, all tightly bound together to create a sound that made you want to dance like one of those wiggling blow-up Gumby tube-man things you see on car lots. “We want you to dance over and over,” the frontman shouted as the crowd moved like something slippery and viscous. I did as I was told, and kept dancing like Gumby — until I bumped into the table I was dancing next to and knocked over a woman’s drink. “It’s okay,” she yelled over the music. “It was just water, and it was in a plastic cup.” I still felt like a horse’s patoot.
When the Wets exited the stage and slipped outside, the juiced-up crowd began to chant for an encore. The band answered the call, gracing the stage once again until singer Mike Turi could no longer stand. He gave every drop of his energy to this party, and when the final note was fired free, he fell to his back on the stage floor, staring up at a blank ceiling. Even though he was a puddle on the deck at that point, I didn’t think there was any way he was coming down anytime soon.
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