CULTURE VULTURE without a FUTURE

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I have been something of a culture vulture of late and have neglected to tell you about the cool things that I sensorially gourmandized all over (take that, English language!) which you probably didn't or in one case maybe did.

Let's start with last night, shall we? Okay!

FISHBONE @ The Crazy Donkey. Farming(dale?)(ton?)(burg??) At any rate a building nearby described itself as the Jewel of the 110 Corridor. And with sloganeering like that, how can you go wrong?

Who: Fishbone. The LA-based, veteran ska-funk-rock-hardcore band whose first tape I bought in high school despite it being released when I was in fourth grade.

Compatriots: My Beloved and Matt, my musical spirit guide since 1997. He and I have seen the 'bone twice in the last twelve months. Ice cream was consumed beforehand at Houlihans to sweeten the event.

The Venue: A hardrock club/pub in Farmingdaletonburg which probably had about 150 denizens there to see this act. Tix were 20 bucks. Beers were five.

The opening act: There was a sort of douchenozzled hardcore band whose name I didn't get and then there were the Eggplant Queens. Three musicians fronted by three fat men. One more fey than fat, wearing tight white pants and miming masturbation with his microphone or water bottle for better than half the set, one a little fatter with a full mustache and fuller mullet, and then the third who wore a luche libre wrestling mask and a hospital gown which concealed his utterly corpulent and tattooed body. Frequently throughout the set the masked fat man would do handstands on stage which allowed his hospital gown to fall all around his head and his leather thonged loins to be revealed. He had a mighty taint and there were many comments.

FISHBONE: Yeah, I fuckin' touched the lead singer, Angelo, who has the stage antics of Judy Garland and the face of Ren Höek. The band added a trumpet since last I saw them so they were a sextet and they tore it up. The sound was bad, as is to be expected at a venue that specializes in useless hardcore music. The new trumpet player was not tight on some of the arrangements, but that's a bit like saying the napkins were out of place at a food fight. Fishbone kills their shows. And this was no exception. With a very non-hip (and slightly older-my age!) crowd, they still crowd surfed, stage dove, and performed with a redbull mania that wore me out after ninety minutes or so. Rocky George (once of Suicidal Tendencies keeps it so busy on the guitar) and Norwood Fisher was something to watch on bass (so tight, so under control, effortless irrespective of styles). At first I worried that the band would wilt under these circumstances but then it was clear to me that they accepted playing this cracker-ous cavern as a challenge to overcome. There were too few people for crowd surfing so it became incumbent upon me and the saner sober few to make sure that no heads were split. None were. I danced my ass off. They're playing a cruise around Manhattan in August. Go. Dance. Be. Ohmmmmmmmm.