An Evening With Ween
When I predicted that the 8th would be the happiest day of my life, I was not fooling myself. No siree, it's quite hard to beat six hours of eager jubilee, three hours of genuine euphoria, and two more of content exhaustion to top it off. That doesn't come close to a summary, either. There is so much left to describe that I don't know where to begin or how to find the appropriate words to describe such a magical event. Ever since I hopped off my chair that Sunday afternoon to yell to the high heavens the revelation of Ween's forthcoming to Florida, I have not dismissed the show from my mind. I may be relieved of the anticipation now that it's over and done, but those expectations have been replaced with glorious memories.
But enough of my grandiloquence; this shall be a review rather than a reminiscence (even if it felt like a spiritual experience). St. Petersberg, as always, was a treat to visit. I'll start there. St. Pete is a high-density city between Sarasota Tampa that is distinguishable by its many red, orange, and pink buildings. Quite stylish if you ask me, with all the auburn roofing and latin hangouts. We passed Tropicana Field and the Holocaust Museum on our way, my dad finished his second blunt for the day, and Gov't Mule on the car stereo kept us from freaking out over our closeness to Ween. Zac and I could almost smell them, if you catch my drift. On arrival, however, we found out that specific combination of sweat, beer, hemp, and cigarettes filling our senses was reeking from the fans themselves.
Waiting outside the gate, surrounded by fellow Weeners, nearly killed me. Oh, and what a variety of folks showed up! I never knew so many dreadlock-sporting mothers and tattooed internet geeks lived in the region. Although, I'm sure a lot of them migrated south just for Ween...there's always road-trippers. So five minutes into standing in the ticket lines, I almost lose my head because I suddenly see Dave Dreiwitz and Kirk walk through the crowd right ahead of Zac and I. The instant I recognize the two men, the realism of the event sinks in and I become more excited than ever. My teeth don't begin chattering until we're in front of the stage ogling at Claude's drumkit -- as well as a strange microphone wrapped in a palm trunk -- as the court yard overflows with happy fans. Zac whispers, "If you throw up, I don't know you. Okay?"
I didn't upchuck on anybody, though I felt like I might when I saw Dean wave to the crowd from behind the stage, 15 minutes before the show began. That put a grin on my face 10 miles wide which refused to falter. Hell, I must have looked like a lunatic I was so eye-poppingly gleeful. The joy I felt when Ween finally came onstage knew no bounds -- it felt like I had been waiting away a lifetime in the front row and when they came out and opened with "Exactly Where I'm At", I was in heaven. When the song kicked in, I remembered why I was so excited in the first place: live music, especially live Ween, just sounds so good. "She Wanted to Leave" came second and I was thrown from my world, overcome with positive energy, sucked into euphony. Something like that.
The setlist was ever satisfying. A powerful medley consisting of classics ("Little Birdy", "Doctor Rock", "Push Th' Little Daisies"), rarities ("Albino Sunburned Girl", "Final Alarm"), new material ("Leave Deaner Alone", "Light Me Up"), and contemporary favourites ("Mister Richard Smoker", "Transdermal Celebration"). To my surprise, they played the most songs from White Pepper than any other album. I was expecting to hear more from Quebec or Shinola, Vol. 1 honestly. Either way, I must express how thankful I am to have heard any of their music live in person, especially such a well-played variety of it. Never will I forget the way Zac and I exchanged ecstatic glances when Gener, in his button-up glory, announced "Puerto Rican Power".
A good portion of the material they played that night was also performed in the Live in Chicago DVD, I realize now. No wonder some moments felt so strangely familiar -- I watch at DVD religiously and I almost always try and imagine myself there when I do. Finally experiencing those songs in person was so fufilling. "Buckingham Green" was more epic than ever, "Take Me Away" knocked us around, "The Grobe" tasted better than ever, "Spinal Meningitis (Got Me Down)" had the whole crowd squealing its bleak lyrics, and even though the band weren't as into it, "Roses are Free" was also not far from exquisite. Although, it is too bad that they didn't have the giant Boognish banner up during this show like they did in Chicago. That would've topped off the display quite nicely.
Before breaking into an anthem-like "Touch My Tooter", Papa Gene made an announcement that heightened the crowd's cheering more than the first few chords of their most popular tunes. "This might be the best show ever..." he said gazing off into the dark mass of fans toward the back. He turned to his right, asked Glen how he felt, and we heard an agreement, "Best show ever, clearly, and not just for us". From then on the show seemed to rock harder than before. Deaner's crazy-ass guitar faces got more twisted, too, as the sultry night went on. Even the annoying hecklers and drunk assholes appeared to succumb as Ween's prescence overwhelmed the venue. Good thing, too, because I got sick of being pushed around by that bearded loon.
Ween made us cry tears of joy, made us laugh shamelessly, made us sway like deadheads, made us sweat with their awesome sound. It was everything I could ever want in a show (maybe except for the lack of confetti cannons and audience participation but let's leave that to another great duo). These were my thoughts mid-performance; I was too in awe to take in anymore awesomeness by that point, or so I thought. Ween were always ready to dish out more songs no matter how worn out they began to look. Get this: following "Pandy Fackler" with a jazzy five minute Glen jam, they played "I Can't Put My Finger on It" complete with Papa Gene's chant intro, and then "The Blarney Stone", the clincher I anticipated most, where we all pounded our fists in the air while Dean grunted in behalf of his recently contracted Avian Influenza.
Believe it or not, after that madness they came back and played a five song encore! Jesus, these guys just don't give up, do they? Of course not. We chilled with "What Deaner Was Talkin' About", "Did You See Me?", and "Back To Basom"; We chuckled when Gener once again fucked up the lyrics to "Don't Laugh, I Love You"; but then came the unexpected. "Never Squeal on the Pusher" was that fifth song, that last song that had to cap off the Best Show Ever. Dean's wailing guitar and Dave's incredibly random bass then simmered to a quiet groove, and the drums became the loudest sound to be heard. A red spotlight shined down on Claude, leaving the rest of the band in shadow, and he preceded to let loose a relentless drum solo. For 10 minutes he played on, and then the lights came back.
So the band stood arm-in-arm onstage, put out their smokes, and together took a gallant bow. Though their smiles were bright, they weren't done yet. Oh no, how dare we expect such a typical finish at a Ween show. They ran back to their instruments the moment one would expect them to vacate the stage, and finished the song! It was so ass-kicking, I couldn't believe my it. The end of a good is always somewhat sad, especially when you know you'll be riding home half-asleep and disoriented, but as I exited the venue I felt a special contentness instead. It hasn't worn off, either. I think that Ween concert was the start of a beautiful change in my life. A paradigm shift for the brave (brown?) new year, hopefully.
But enough of my grandiloquence; this shall be a review rather than a reminiscence (even if it felt like a spiritual experience). St. Petersberg, as always, was a treat to visit. I'll start there. St. Pete is a high-density city between Sarasota Tampa that is distinguishable by its many red, orange, and pink buildings. Quite stylish if you ask me, with all the auburn roofing and latin hangouts. We passed Tropicana Field and the Holocaust Museum on our way, my dad finished his second blunt for the day, and Gov't Mule on the car stereo kept us from freaking out over our closeness to Ween. Zac and I could almost smell them, if you catch my drift. On arrival, however, we found out that specific combination of sweat, beer, hemp, and cigarettes filling our senses was reeking from the fans themselves.
Waiting outside the gate, surrounded by fellow Weeners, nearly killed me. Oh, and what a variety of folks showed up! I never knew so many dreadlock-sporting mothers and tattooed internet geeks lived in the region. Although, I'm sure a lot of them migrated south just for Ween...there's always road-trippers. So five minutes into standing in the ticket lines, I almost lose my head because I suddenly see Dave Dreiwitz and Kirk walk through the crowd right ahead of Zac and I. The instant I recognize the two men, the realism of the event sinks in and I become more excited than ever. My teeth don't begin chattering until we're in front of the stage ogling at Claude's drumkit -- as well as a strange microphone wrapped in a palm trunk -- as the court yard overflows with happy fans. Zac whispers, "If you throw up, I don't know you. Okay?"
I didn't upchuck on anybody, though I felt like I might when I saw Dean wave to the crowd from behind the stage, 15 minutes before the show began. That put a grin on my face 10 miles wide which refused to falter. Hell, I must have looked like a lunatic I was so eye-poppingly gleeful. The joy I felt when Ween finally came onstage knew no bounds -- it felt like I had been waiting away a lifetime in the front row and when they came out and opened with "Exactly Where I'm At", I was in heaven. When the song kicked in, I remembered why I was so excited in the first place: live music, especially live Ween, just sounds so good. "She Wanted to Leave" came second and I was thrown from my world, overcome with positive energy, sucked into euphony. Something like that.
The setlist was ever satisfying. A powerful medley consisting of classics ("Little Birdy", "Doctor Rock", "Push Th' Little Daisies"), rarities ("Albino Sunburned Girl", "Final Alarm"), new material ("Leave Deaner Alone", "Light Me Up"), and contemporary favourites ("Mister Richard Smoker", "Transdermal Celebration"). To my surprise, they played the most songs from White Pepper than any other album. I was expecting to hear more from Quebec or Shinola, Vol. 1 honestly. Either way, I must express how thankful I am to have heard any of their music live in person, especially such a well-played variety of it. Never will I forget the way Zac and I exchanged ecstatic glances when Gener, in his button-up glory, announced "Puerto Rican Power".
A good portion of the material they played that night was also performed in the Live in Chicago DVD, I realize now. No wonder some moments felt so strangely familiar -- I watch at DVD religiously and I almost always try and imagine myself there when I do. Finally experiencing those songs in person was so fufilling. "Buckingham Green" was more epic than ever, "Take Me Away" knocked us around, "The Grobe" tasted better than ever, "Spinal Meningitis (Got Me Down)" had the whole crowd squealing its bleak lyrics, and even though the band weren't as into it, "Roses are Free" was also not far from exquisite. Although, it is too bad that they didn't have the giant Boognish banner up during this show like they did in Chicago. That would've topped off the display quite nicely.
Before breaking into an anthem-like "Touch My Tooter", Papa Gene made an announcement that heightened the crowd's cheering more than the first few chords of their most popular tunes. "This might be the best show ever..." he said gazing off into the dark mass of fans toward the back. He turned to his right, asked Glen how he felt, and we heard an agreement, "Best show ever, clearly, and not just for us". From then on the show seemed to rock harder than before. Deaner's crazy-ass guitar faces got more twisted, too, as the sultry night went on. Even the annoying hecklers and drunk assholes appeared to succumb as Ween's prescence overwhelmed the venue. Good thing, too, because I got sick of being pushed around by that bearded loon.
Ween made us cry tears of joy, made us laugh shamelessly, made us sway like deadheads, made us sweat with their awesome sound. It was everything I could ever want in a show (maybe except for the lack of confetti cannons and audience participation but let's leave that to another great duo). These were my thoughts mid-performance; I was too in awe to take in anymore awesomeness by that point, or so I thought. Ween were always ready to dish out more songs no matter how worn out they began to look. Get this: following "Pandy Fackler" with a jazzy five minute Glen jam, they played "I Can't Put My Finger on It" complete with Papa Gene's chant intro, and then "The Blarney Stone", the clincher I anticipated most, where we all pounded our fists in the air while Dean grunted in behalf of his recently contracted Avian Influenza.
Believe it or not, after that madness they came back and played a five song encore! Jesus, these guys just don't give up, do they? Of course not. We chilled with "What Deaner Was Talkin' About", "Did You See Me?", and "Back To Basom"; We chuckled when Gener once again fucked up the lyrics to "Don't Laugh, I Love You"; but then came the unexpected. "Never Squeal on the Pusher" was that fifth song, that last song that had to cap off the Best Show Ever. Dean's wailing guitar and Dave's incredibly random bass then simmered to a quiet groove, and the drums became the loudest sound to be heard. A red spotlight shined down on Claude, leaving the rest of the band in shadow, and he preceded to let loose a relentless drum solo. For 10 minutes he played on, and then the lights came back.
So the band stood arm-in-arm onstage, put out their smokes, and together took a gallant bow. Though their smiles were bright, they weren't done yet. Oh no, how dare we expect such a typical finish at a Ween show. They ran back to their instruments the moment one would expect them to vacate the stage, and finished the song! It was so ass-kicking, I couldn't believe my it. The end of a good is always somewhat sad, especially when you know you'll be riding home half-asleep and disoriented, but as I exited the venue I felt a special contentness instead. It hasn't worn off, either. I think that Ween concert was the start of a beautiful change in my life. A paradigm shift for the brave (brown?) new year, hopefully.