I'm in a touch of a foul mood, despite last night's bands all having been superb, me not being hung over, having made the most delicious breakfast cookies to date (with blueberry and raisin and apple and carrot, oh my), and the washing up being done. The piles of laundry I have waiting for me and Miss P's botany project are killing my game - I wanted to get the proposal done this weekend and now I don't know if I can. Not that there's a hurry. Except in my heart.
So - last night. King Kahn & the Shrines of Berlin, whose Mr. Supernatural is playing on my lucky stereo right now, exceeded my high expectations. I’m a romantic, you see: I go to concerts expected to be enchanted, charmed and enraptured, which leads to a lot of disappointment. But King ‘the Destroyer’ Khan, the incredible musicians backing him up, and the fucking go-go dancer brought me to a higher level of respect and love for the race I belong to. I have a hard time describing it. It’s fuck-ass sweet soul, with a little crystal up everybody’s nose - if crystal was a loving drug. It’s the Commitments with German precision, loose-spined funk and spice. Oh yes. All at once. Look, just go see them, okay; these guys could have sold me Scientology by the end of the show, so just go, fuck. They’re playing another set in Toronto tonight – I’d go again if I weren’t yearning for the Golden Dogs.
The other events of last night were all great. The set we started with, Groove Bros. of Brooklyn, was great, but playing to a crowd as cold as Megababe’s. They deserved better. Especially with lyrics like “an ass so phat you can see it from the front”. Life. Next, we lagged getting to the Horseshoe. Poor us – missed alot of C'mon - luckily they're local so we can see them again. That was simple blue paradise insanity and started some moshing, which was reassuring because I was afraid Toronto audiences were dead at the wheel. The singer/guitarist took a quick break from freaking the fuck out and drenching us with violent sounds that seemed completely random and accidental - but perfect – to point out that the people moshing should stop, as the band liked girls to come to their shows. Adorable.
They were followed by White Cowbell Oklahoma and that was just . . . well, did you see that Johnny Cash biopic? I found it flat and unengaging. Part of that was probably seeing it on a mini-screen on Air France in the middle of the night when I was on my way to defend a master’s thesis and my gall bladder was getting ready to explode, but mostly I’m pretty sure it’s because there was no Johnny Cash in it. I’m not going to knock Joaquin Phoenix, you know how I feel about him, but his musical impersonation of Johnny Cash just sounded like acting. To the degree that there’s no way watching that film is a better aesthetic experience – yes, even though it means looking at Joaquin Phoenix – than listening to Live at San Quentin.
The point of that story is that if they wanted something really musically great for the biopic, they should have chosen a supergroup to do the music for it, and not got the actors to do it. I don’t know who that supergroup would be because I don’t know shit about country. Not White Cowbell Oklahoma, because they don’t sound anything like Johnny Cash; I think I just thought of that right now because Johnny Cash and this band were the only country-esque things that’ve ever touched my very soul, besides Dolly Parton’s "Jolene", and then I wanted to rant about making a musical biopic and getting the actor to sing. Just seems a bit dumb to me, is all.
Are you still reading? You’re patient. My point is White Cowbell Oklahoma were fucking amazing. All of them. Everything. Pseudo-strippers included. Amazing to watch, amazing to hear. To the degree that when they sang the refrain which is the title of this post, it actually made my fine anti-American ass want to put the south into my mouth. So there ya go.