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Gonzo Report: Red Hot Chili Peppers inspire passion in the pit
Heat and Magik at Mission Valley’s Snapdragon Stadium
Hey John Frusciante! It’s the Johns!
On Snapdragon Stadium’s opening day, I recall hearing stories about how the sun melted a college football crowd into a dank mess. This much is true: the new stadium, although modern and affable, fails to provide any sort of shade for us first world bitches. Fortunately for us, on this particular day, the May gray is back with full coverage. Our skin remains unblistered. Still, I plan to get melted, not by the sun, but by the Mars Volta and the Red Hot Chili Peppers, who are popping in to penetrate our city’s big, new, noisy box.
It’s Friday, concert day. Before burning down the I-8 West to Mission Valley, my coworker Victoria and I stop to stock up on beers and tacos for tailgate time. Parking at the stadium costs an eyebrow-raising $50, but considering the price of food and drinks inside, we agree it’s worth it to be able to party by our car. Our friend Chris B. Creme is already waiting for us. I throw Victoria two twenties for the parking; she’ll buy my first beer inside. Deal? Deal. Beers range from $16-$19, and food — well, it’s typical stadium robbery.
Chili Peppers in full melt mode.
Just outside our gate, I notice a grassy hill behind the merch tent. “Excuse me a minute,” I say to my friends, before ripping off a couple of somersaults to the bottom, then going back up and doing it again — because we have the time, and I have the inclination. Brushing off the grass from my shirt, I then enter with the others and orange bands are wrapped around our wrists, indicating we’re allowed to go where few achieve access. The pit’s entrance is swarming with around a half-dozen security guards, who wave us in. I’m usually the guy looking for alternative ways to the front from my shitty seats, but tonight’s different. I actually paid for good tickets.
Listening to a recent Rick Rubin podcast, I heard the famed music producer describe the Chili Peppers as reaching transcendence on a very regular basis. Rubin said, “It’s wild being in the room. We just look at each other kind of dumbfounded, because you can’t believe what’s happening.” This is something I want to witness, and the pit puts me as close as I can be.
During The Mars Volta set, a fan wearing bunny ears and a leather bomber jacket keeps shouting for the Johns to assemble. His name is John, and he has found five other Johns. Then six. A short while later, one of the Johns finds his dad, who’s also John. I tell the bunny-eared John to make the John gang so big that Mars Volta guitarist John Frusciante hears about it and has no choice but to become a part of the collective. I believe in him, but lose sight of his efforts when the Chili Peppers hit the stage. We make our way to the middle of the crowd and, once at the center, stop and get comfortable. Then a voice from behind echoes over to us. “Hey, I think the ladies were here first,” says a young fella to me. Sure, we budged a little, but it’s the pit. You get in where you fit in. We move over a little more to appease them. I still feel their ballistic heat vision on my neck, but I hardly care.
A couple of songs into the set, a person wearing a ladybug costume starts crowd-surfing from behind us toward the stage. As they pass by, they kick the back of my head, knocking off my hat and sunglasses. When I go down to retrieve them, one of the hostile women sees her chance to reclaim her spot ahead of us, rushing in for a calculated blitzkrieg. I make my way back up, start fist pumping to “Can’t Stop,” and feel a bony elbow jamming my side. The woman is beside me now, chicken winging my ribcage like a xylophone. That’s the pit spirit, lady. “I know you and your little girlfriend budged, but we’ve been waiting here since six o’clock,” she spits.
“All is fair in love and war and rock and roll,” I calmly reply. To ease the tension, I fire up a joint. After a crackling hit, I extend the fresh doobie to the angry woman as a peace offering. She scoffs at me as I let her by. With her moving back ahead of us, all parties seem satisfied. I tilt my head back, flare my nostrils wide, and begin breathing in forty years of Chili Peppers. No need for blood, sugar, or sex. I’m only here for the magik.
Here's something you might be interested in.
Gonzo Report: Red Hot Chili Peppers inspire passion in the pit
Heat and Magik at Mission Valley’s Snapdragon Stadium
Gonzo Report: Red Hot Chili Peppers inspire passion in the pit
Heat and Magik at Mission Valley’s Snapdragon Stadium
Hey John Frusciante! It’s the Johns!
On Snapdragon Stadium’s opening day, I recall hearing stories about how the sun melted a college football crowd into a dank mess. This much is true: the new stadium, although modern and affable, fails to provide any sort of shade for us first world bitches. Fortunately for us, on this particular day, the May gray is back with full coverage. Our skin remains unblistered. Still, I plan to get melted, not by the sun, but by the Mars Volta and the Red Hot Chili Peppers, who are popping in to penetrate our city’s big, new, noisy box.
It’s Friday, concert day. Before burning down the I-8 West to Mission Valley, my coworker Victoria and I stop to stock up on beers and tacos for tailgate time. Parking at the stadium costs an eyebrow-raising $50, but considering the price of food and drinks inside, we agree it’s worth it to be able to party by our car. Our friend Chris B. Creme is already waiting for us. I throw Victoria two twenties for the parking; she’ll buy my first beer inside. Deal? Deal. Beers range from $16-$19, and food — well, it’s typical stadium robbery.
Chili Peppers in full melt mode.
Just outside our gate, I notice a grassy hill behind the merch tent. “Excuse me a minute,” I say to my friends, before ripping off a couple of somersaults to the bottom, then going back up and doing it again — because we have the time, and I have the inclination. Brushing off the grass from my shirt, I then enter with the others and orange bands are wrapped around our wrists, indicating we’re allowed to go where few achieve access. The pit’s entrance is swarming with around a half-dozen security guards, who wave us in. I’m usually the guy looking for alternative ways to the front from my shitty seats, but tonight’s different. I actually paid for good tickets.
Listening to a recent Rick Rubin podcast, I heard the famed music producer describe the Chili Peppers as reaching transcendence on a very regular basis. Rubin said, “It’s wild being in the room. We just look at each other kind of dumbfounded, because you can’t believe what’s happening.” This is something I want to witness, and the pit puts me as close as I can be.
During The Mars Volta set, a fan wearing bunny ears and a leather bomber jacket keeps shouting for the Johns to assemble. His name is John, and he has found five other Johns. Then six. A short while later, one of the Johns finds his dad, who’s also John. I tell the bunny-eared John to make the John gang so big that Mars Volta guitarist John Frusciante hears about it and has no choice but to become a part of the collective. I believe in him, but lose sight of his efforts when the Chili Peppers hit the stage. We make our way to the middle of the crowd and, once at the center, stop and get comfortable. Then a voice from behind echoes over to us. “Hey, I think the ladies were here first,” says a young fella to me. Sure, we budged a little, but it’s the pit. You get in where you fit in. We move over a little more to appease them. I still feel their ballistic heat vision on my neck, but I hardly care.
A couple of songs into the set, a person wearing a ladybug costume starts crowd-surfing from behind us toward the stage. As they pass by, they kick the back of my head, knocking off my hat and sunglasses. When I go down to retrieve them, one of the hostile women sees her chance to reclaim her spot ahead of us, rushing in for a calculated blitzkrieg. I make my way back up, start fist pumping to “Can’t Stop,” and feel a bony elbow jamming my side. The woman is beside me now, chicken winging my ribcage like a xylophone. That’s the pit spirit, lady. “I know you and your little girlfriend budged, but we’ve been waiting here since six o’clock,” she spits.
“All is fair in love and war and rock and roll,” I calmly reply. To ease the tension, I fire up a joint. After a crackling hit, I extend the fresh doobie to the angry woman as a peace offering. She scoffs at me as I let her by. With her moving back ahead of us, all parties seem satisfied. I tilt my head back, flare my nostrils wide, and begin breathing in forty years of Chili Peppers. No need for blood, sugar, or sex. I’m only here for the magik.
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