Postcard to A Lost Weekend IX. 05.13.03
Arroz the Rice-A-Homie is the bestest. He wouldn’t tell me the surprise for weeks, but told me to leave May 11th open for… a surprise. We walked through the mists of Hudson Street and past Canal up to Spring and cut left, finding ourselves at the end of a small line at the rock club Don Hill’s.
Where the poster states that tonight is one of two shows by a cavalcade of unheard of terrible funk-o-metal bands. Headlined by King’s X and your band, Fishbone.
Some of my friends probably get excited over the name Fishbone. I have seen you once myself, on the Mississippi Riverfront in Memphis, Tennessee. I’ll tell you that tale one day if you haven’t heard it. It’s one of my favorites. And Fishbone, you were okay there, on a crappy soundsystem and a crowd maybe a little old for their antics. Parliament Funkadelic was the headliner, if you’ll remember.
But back here in New York, I hopped on one foot in glee. And not just over y’all, Fishbone.
I listened to a lot of heavy metal as a high schooler. Yeah, I did it. One of the bands I liked was King’s X, a progressive metal band of positive Christian men who mess with time signatures and harmonize about love and probably grew up listening to Rush and Voivod.
Arroz didn’t know that. He knows that Fishbone is a blast in and of themselves. In fact, in the sweaty no-fan confines of Don Hill’s, where water is an essential and my stink isn’t bad compared to the ambiance of the club, with John Waters’ absolutely filthy Pink Flamingos on two TV screens, you rocked hard.
The kids were stage diving from Party at Ground Zero throughout the set, surfing the crowd and yelling out loud. Angelo Moore, you of course got into the act, singing while floating on a wave of hands. But, Angelo. I am glad I came to your show. But watch the feet. You kicked Kiri in the head. Don’t kick the Kiri, don’t break her nose. She’s gonna be famous one day. She’ll need that nose. And her brother’s really big and won’t cotton to such behavior. You did see her with the cup of ice to her face, right?
Also, Norwood. I love your anti-rat-tail, or your last remaining dred, or your antenna to the funk aliens with the frozen Godzilla farts. But, as a fan, I must tell you—showering is your friend. When walking through a crowd, we can smell your musky waft. Please, next time—don’t opt for the oils, opt for the soap.
I wish I could also tell Riz to NOT spit water at me. Granted, I dribbled a little on her shoulder, but a full-on fire hydrant spit was not the way to go. The guy behind me certainly didn’t enjoy it.
When the skankin’ was done, and everyone was smiling, well after Arroz and I wailed along to Sunless Saturday, the rest of the kids left. It was late, they were tired. So was I.
But not too tired to stay for King’s X.
And I saw you in the corner, Neal Davis from high school. Man, these kids are everywhere! No matter. King’s X whipped out blues cords and a funk beat for their new songs. And they did fine, embellishing some of their crappier songs and making them pleasant.
Then they took it back to 1989-91. Damn, it was good. Like the first real key lime pie of the summer. Norwood, I saw you appreciating them between fan conversations, hanging out in the back, quietly accepting on-stage appreciation from King’s X. Very cool.
Fishbone—as the crowd said, you are Red Hot.