It's going to be a brave new world...

It has been confirmed. Mario Manningham is leaving the University of Michigan for the NFL. It was good while it lasted. Remember the good times, everybody:










I'm not positive, but I'm pretty sure that Arrington is leaving, too. I couldn't find a clip of the behind-the-back grab from the bowl game, but here's this:









I wish those two the best. It was fun while it lasted, but it's looking like a clean slate come fall. Keep your fingers crossed for Pryor.

(Oh, and by the way, I totally stole this entry from MGoBlog. Thanks for doing the work for me, buddy.)

"I'm gonna eat your brains and gain your knowledge"

After watching (and reviewing) Tarantino’s Grindhouse contribution, Death Proof, earlier this week, I couldn’t seem to keep myself from watching Rodriguez’s Planet Terror. So on the return trip to the video store to bring back Death Proof, I felt compelled to pick up the other half of Grindhouse.

Now that I’ve seen both, I guess I can level my “whose movie was better” opinion. I’d have to say that the reviews were more or less right, Tarantino’s Death Proof is the better movie. But making that kind of comparison, however unavoidable, is a little strange. While Death Proof played like a cross between Monte Hellman and early Wes Craven, Planet Terror comes across much more like old John Carpenter on a dangerous mix of bad acid and a lot of meth. Just wanted to make it clear, though these two movies are meant to be packaged together, they are two very different animals.

Similar to Death Proof, Planet Terror’s plot isn’t really all that important, but here goes anyways. In an unnamed backwater Texas scrub town, a biochemical weapon stored at an old army base begins mutating all the local residents into a horde of infected, cannibalistic, zombie-like “sickos”. A ragtag group of uninfected locals (including a tow truck driver with a mysterious past and an affinity for guns, a sassy ex-go-go dancer with a chip on her shoulder, a BBQ chef obsessed with getting on the Food Network, and the bumbling Sheriff’s department, among others) must battle their way through the ever growing horde of mutants and tangle with a roving band of murderous ex-military personnel. Throw in some stuff about addiction, exploitation of our military, and confusing back-story relationships between just about every character and there you have it. It may sound confusing, and it is a little at times, but plot is not really the point.

Pretty much from the get-go, the movie is a non-stop insane-o-fest. By minute 10 you’ve seen a man get his balls cut off (as well as the giant jar of balls in which an entire ball collection is kept). By minute 12 you’ve seen a man get his face melted off by a mysterious green gas. Pretty much all bets are off at that point. From there on, you’ll be treated to what was one of the goriest movies I have ever seen. It was staggering, just the sheer volume of gore. It blows my mind to think about the amount of fake blood, guts, and viscera that went into the filming. Bodies are constantly gushing blood, guts, being eaten, or just ripped apart.

Planet Terror also offers some truly cringe-worthy moments. It’s not all over-the-top, campy horror movie excess (though it is to a great extent). One character in particular gets stabbed repeatedly with syringes one moment, only to break her wrist in a car door handle the next. And the cringes don’t just come in the form of in-your-face gruesomeness, Rodriguez definitely knows how to remind the audience that all bets are off, no reminder more clear than when a child accidentally shoots his own face off (oddly enough, Rodriguez didn’t want to traumatize any child actors by filming that scene, so he just cast his own son).

Overall, the movie was a lot of fun. It’s highly stylized, overflowing with tough-guy talk, sneers, sassy retorts, huge explosions, and just about any ridiculous movie convention you can think of. It featured both Rodriguez’s typical guitar-based Southwestern score, as well as a very Carpenter-esque synth score (a la Escape from New York). Even all the faux-damage to the film reel is employed with a purpose (while Tarantino used film stock then intentionally damaged it for effect, Rodriguez shot in digital and added the damaged-film effects in post). As the tension mounts, the screen wobbles and bleeds, color distortion creeps across the screen as villains leer at our heroes. While decidedly less “authentic” than Tarantino’s strategy, Rodriguez maintains more control over the ‘70s exploitation motif, lending the movie a much slicker appearance (for better or worse).

There are more than a few things that don’t make much sense (e.g. how does Rose McGowan’s machine gun leg fire? why does the arrival of zombie-like mutants cause every car within eye-sight to spontaneously explode? since when has Freddy Rodriguez been a badass action star?), but the movie is way too damn fun for any of that to matter. From the moment that first testicle hits the pavement up to the last exploding head, Planet Terror is a whole lot of blood-soaked, ratcheted-up genre fun.

I should warn, this movie is most definitely not for everybody. You’ll need a strong stomach and a very strong appreciation for horror/action movies. The non-stop action, gore, and violence means that the movie can definitely wear on the audience. Especially if that audience isn’t that into ridiculously over-the-top violence in the first place. Be forewarned, if this doesn’t sound like something you’ll like, you’ll hate it.

Overall, very nice work boys. It’s a shame the Weinstein’s haven’t released a theatrical cut on DVD yet. It’s a shame I rented two double-disc movies, and didn’t get to see the special guest directors’ fake intermission trailers (I was especially looking forward to Rob Zombie’s Werewolf Women of the SS). Maybe someday…

PS. Prior to the start of Planet Terror, you’re treated to a faux-preview for a film called Machete, starring badass Danny Trejo. Pretty awesome. Featuring, very prominently, plenty of downtown Austin landmarks. Plus Cheech Marin dressed as a priest, points a shotgun at someone, and says, “God may have mercy. But I don’t.” Sweet.

Ah, online validation

Despite the fact that their reviews are often irritating enough that I rarely get through them and their news section is generally filled with bands I've either never heard of or couldn't care less about, I still check Pitchfork at least once a day. Those indie rockers are just so judgmental, I need them to think I'm cool!

Anyways, one feature I actually enjoy reading is the column "Show No Mercy", Brandon Stosuy's coverage of the extreme metal world. Yesterday's column was his year in review for 2007, and here's what he had to say about High on Fire's Death is this Communion:

Matt Pike, Des Kensel and new bassist Jeff Matz do the unthinkable, topping the classic 2002 gem Surrounded By Thieves (and 2005's Preston-y Blessed Black Wings, etc.) The Jack Endino-produced slab rails through eleven counts of perfect no-bullshit Oakland-born hard rock. You can call it stoner or doom or post post-Sleep, but whatever the case, Lemmy must be proud (and maybe a wee bit scared). Full review soon.

I knew I was cool! You can read his full recap of 2007 here.

You can read my review of Death is this Communion here. Not that my review will be any easier to get through than Pitchfork's will be. Probably just less pretentious (and with worse grammar).

"You wanna get hot?"

There is something great about low-budget exploitation movies. It’s not a mysterious thing. They’re just kind of awesome. The lack of studio over-sight means they tend to be pretty uncensored. The lack of budget means the better ones tend to be pretty innovative. And, at the most basic level, they’re just badass.

I was pretty excited when I heard about Grindhouse, Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino’s ode to the by-gone days of exploitation cinema. Unfortunately, a busy schedule and a 3+ hour runtime (due to the Alamo serving beer during movies, more runtime means more beer, which means bigger bill) kept me from seeing it in the theaters. Following its notoriously poor showing at the box office, and the Weinstein’s notorious run of bad financial luck, meant the double-feature was split for the DVD release in an attempt to recoup more money. So, when I finally got around to watching it, I had to watch one at a time. I started with Tarantino’s Death Proof, buying into the notion that it was the better of the two. I have yet to see Rodriguez’s Planet Terror, so my take will have to wait.

Given that plot isn’t really key here (nor is there really much of a plot to talk about), I’ll just get it out of the way now. Kurt Russell plays an ex-stuntman named, appropriately enough, Stuntman Mike. He drives his “death proof” muscle cars around, chasing, terrorizing, and vehicularly murdering beautiful young women. That’s about it.

There are a lot of things to like about Death Proof. As an Austin resident, the first half was fantastic. Shot on location in Austin, the first forty minutes elicited plenty of “been there” and “I know where that is” mental checks. Rodriguez and his Troublemaker Studios are famously located in Austin, and Tarantino’s close friendship with Rodriguez means he’s a surprisingly common guest. He definitely has a good feel for our fair city. It might not be a universal appeal, but it was a pleasant surprise to see the city represented so well.

The movie itself is filled with more or less typical Tarantino dialogue. Pop culture and profanity abound in the talk-heavy segments of the movie, leading into some of the greatest chase scenes and car stunts I have ever seen. No one is going to walk into this movie wanting to hear characters talk endlessly, and no one is going to leave talking about the dialogue. It’s all a means to get us to the meat of Death Proof’s appeal. The cars. The stunts. The crashes.

Tarantino, notoriously resistant to digital effects, opts for classic ‘70s style stunts. There are no enormous explosions. Cars hit cars. Metal twists and glass breaks. Tires squeal and smoke billows. No ridiculous CGI nonsense that is usually more distracting than cool. This is all to an amazing end. There are two chase scenes that will get your heart pumping, probably unlike any more has before.

First time actress, long time stuntwoman, Zoe Bell turns out a performance that is more impressive than any I’ve seen in a long time. As an actress she is almost immediately likeable. She’s naturally charming to the point where it requires no work on the part of the audience or the director to make us like her. We just do. As a stuntwoman, doing her own stunts obviously, she is jawdroppingly ballsy. The first of the aforementioned car chases has her doing some of the craziest stunts I have ever witnessed. Not since watching Buster Keaton in Steamboat Bill Jr. (way back in 1928) have I been so convinced that not only are the things I’m watching look dangerous but in reality were dangerous to film. There are no “that looked crazy, must have been tough to do”, it is all “how did she not die while filming that?!” I won’t ruin what exactly some of these stunts are, but watching Zoe Bell alone is reason enough to rent Death Proof.

If a badass stuntwoman doing insanely dangerous things isn’t enough to get you into this movie, a badass Kurt Russell should help tip the scales. Stuntman Mike is a coolly bizarre psycho that is immediately fun to watch. I wouldn’t say Russell’s performance is necessarily good acting, as much as the fun he obviously had playing the character is immediately contagious. He sneers. He spouts ridiculous, cool, tough-guy talk. Just when you think watching him can’t get any more fun, the 180 the character takes after the first chase is absolutely incredible.

Death Proof definitely has its problems, though. Surprisingly, its biggest problems are the dialogue and acting. I’m not sure if it was purposefully written and acted this way (my guess is that it was, given the terrific dialogue Tarantino has previously written and fantastic performances he has previously elicited), but it all seems to be done to further emulate the old exploitation movies. Ultimately, a lot of the dialogue seems stilted and awkward and a lot of the delivery comes across as forced and uncomfortable. Even if it is an attempt to continue the throwback motif, it doesn’t make it any less annoying or distracting. The constant name-dropping of the old movies Death Proof is trying to ape gets old after the first time someone brings up Vanishing Point. I don’t need to hear for a fifth time how great Dirty Mary, Crazy Larry is. Finally, a small but minor annoyance is how bizarrely anachronistic the movie can be. It looks like the ‘70s. It sounds like the ‘70s. But everyone has cell phones and iPods. Minor thing, but I found it distracting.

All in all, I’d have to say that Death Proof is a good, not great, movie. I’d give it 4 out of 5 stars. That being said, though, I would say that it’s a must see. If that makes sense. It won’t go down in history as a fantastic movie, just a couple of fantastic car chases. I’d bet you’ll walk away from this movie thinking it was good (not great), but you’ll definitely be glad you saw it.

Running through maple syrup while being punched in the face

Following the infamous (and kinda hilarious) demise of doom metal, slower-than-dirt icon Sleep, guitarist Matt Pike formed the noticeably faster-than-dirt band High on Fire. High on Fire recently released their fourth full-length, Death is this Communion (following the Art of Self-Defense, Surrounded by Thieves, and Blessed Black Wings). How this band managed to stomp around under my radar for so long is beyond me. To be honest, I’m a little embarrassed, but regardless I’ve found them. Or they found me, if you want to get a little creepy about it.

Death is this Communion, on the whole, is thick, heavy, dense, and down tuned to within an inch of its life. This bottom-heavy, wall of sound comes across at times a bit like trying to run wind sprints in a pool of molasses. The songs are written in an almost Motorheadish blues-metal style, with, at times, a more prog structure thrown in to keep things interesting. It can definitely leave you feeling, at first listen though, as if all their songs sound the same, separated by the occasional Middle Eastern influenced guitar work or drum solo. You hear it once, walk away thinking it all sounded like the same thundering fist in the gut, but in a little while, it begins.

Could be hours. Could be days. Hell, could be years. There are probably Typhoid Mary, asymptomatic High on Fire fanatics just waiting out there. Then it happens. You can’t get it out of your head. You find yourself replaying songs over and over again in your mind. You don’t know which songs they are. You don’t remember the words. You’re not even sure if it’s one song or some kind of muddled up medley your mind has glued together. But it plays and plays until you listen to the album again. Then it replays until you listen to it a third time. Next thing you know, you have 75% of the album memorized, all just so you can make sense of all that noise in your head.

The cause of the songs surprising catchiness can mostly be attributed Matt Pike’s vocals. His almost inhuman voice is all at once raspy, guttural, and melodic as he screams in throat shredding fashion surprisingly well-written lyrics. His barking howl doesn’t so much rise over the thick murkiness of the music, as it pushes itself through the din. The guitar, bass, drums, and vocals all lurk and sway in dangerous, thunderous unison. Guitars and bass become inseparable, bass and drums merge, and the vocals lead them all through the apocalyptic stomp. As if fifty hands were to all mold themselves into one giant sized fist, repeatedly punching you in the face, the music is melting pot of blues stomp low-end noise.

Check out their new video for the first single, “Rumors of War”, definitely one of my favorite songs on the album, along with “Waste of Tiamut” and “Turk”. Though, I have yet to find a single cut that I couldn’t listen to over and over again. Highly, highly recommended for people looking for some new metal, or just for people who don't have shitty taste in music.

Long Live the New Flesh!

With the release of his newest film, Eastern Promises, David Cronenberg has once again entered the minds of great men. He has also brought with him age-old feuds, pitting brother against brother, friend against friend. Specifically, pitting me against my brother Brad and my friend Conor. Let us draw the lines early and clearly; I think Cronenberg is amazing, and Brad and Conor are idiots. Shall we begin?

There are a few points that I’d like to address early and get them out of the way. First, though I think A History of Violence is a good movie, I have to agree with the anti-Cronenberg camp in that I’m surprised and confused at the amount of critical acclaim it has received. I didn’t find it particularly probing or thought provoking, simply entertaining. I think efforts to dissect and analyze it to find deep examinations into the nature of man and identity are misguided and giving the movie way more credit than it deserves. Second, I acknowledge that his films can be slow (Brad says “boring,” but I prefer to say they are “deliberately paced”). I don’t think this is necessarily a fault, but I do want to acknowledge that I’m well aware of their pace.

We’ll start at the beginning, Cronenberg’s early days as a low-budget horror auteur. In fact, we’ll start with his very first feature length film, Shivers (aka They came from Within). Cronenberg’s debut film already features his trademark themes of modernity, isolation, and technology. In an upscale condominium complex, people live in almost complete isolation from the rest of the world. Located on an island off the Canadian coast, the complex features a grocery store, restaurant, and in-house doctor’s office. When one of the tenants, a biologist (with suspiciously similar fears to Cronenberg himself), tries to manufacture a parasite that will allow repressed modern society to remember and re-embrace its baser, natural urges. Naturally, the parasite goes wildly out of control, spreading throughout the building, sending tenant after tenant into a sex-crazed, violent, murderous frenzy. The building’s doctor fights an uphill battle as he tries to figure out what is happening, while also keeping an eye on the door. Too bad that door only leads to the Atlantic Ocean.

Though it’s not his most subtle or complex film, it does illustrate the style and themes of his early works pretty well. Shivers mixes graphic violence and sex, staples of low budget horror, with more meaningful intentions. Cronenberg doesn’t decry our baser impulses, but he does recognize their destructive power. Rather than criticize or linger on the horror that man is capable of, he warns us all of the dangers of simply whitewashing over them. Locking the human animal in an antiseptic cage of convenience and complacency doesn’t remove those more “undesirable” aspects of human nature. All it does it let them seethe under our skin, until the day comes that a giant slug parasite infects our bodies, and the whole damned world explodes in an orgy of violent sexual free-for-all.

This idea of repression and its inevitable consequences are as prevalent in Cronenberg’s early work as his fear of modernization. Now is a good time to introduce the term “body-horror.” A term, an entire genre, practically invented to describe Cronenberg’s work. The lynchpin of body-horror is the idea that the worst, most horrific thing imaginable is your own body turning against you. The vulnerability felt knowing that your own body is killing you. Thanks to Cronenberg’s crack team of special effects wizards, as viewers, we are treated to this betrayal in the most horrific of fashions. See his wonderful, better than the original, remake of the Fly for one of the most disgusting examples of body-horror.

The betrayal of the body due to modern repression and technological advances can be seen throughout his early career. The Brood (also “deliberately paced”) is a meditation on the destructive nature of repressed neurosis growing and festering into full-blown psychopathy (or in this case a hoard of evil psychotic midget fetuses). Scanners, similar to A History of Violence, lacks the social commentary, but retains many of the superficial aspects of body-horror. One must look no further than cinema’s greatest head exploding scene or the borderline grotesque climatic showdown that ends the film to see why a new term need to be coined and an entire subgenre created just for Cronenberg.

Which brings me to an interesting crossroads. Videodrome. Videodrome, a true masterpiece, leads in a multitude of directions. I could talk about how all of Cronenberg’s various pet themes (i.e. technology, modernity, isolation, repression/expression of primal nature, body-horror) all coalesce in a brilliant psycho-noir-thriller. I could speak of the turning point in theme and style. I will leave it at, simply, see this fucking movie.

Following Videodrome, with the notable exception of the Fly, Cronenberg’s work took on a less graphic, subtler approach. Moving on from his themes of technology and manifestations of social-turned-personal ills, Cronenberg began adopting explorations of reality (objective v. subjective) and identity’s dependence on that reality. Videodrome already began these explorations, as the viewer has the rug pulled out from under him right along with James Woods’ Max Renn, leaving all involved completely without solid ground to stand on come the closing credits. The concepts of what is real, what is in the mind, and which matters more are all explored in his mid-career films, such as Dead Ringers, Naked Lunch, and Spider.

If Videodrome is Cronenberg’s masterpiece of body-horror and the culmination of his earlier themes, then Dead Ringers stands as his masterpiece of his explorations into his later theme of identity. The sensationalistic plot revolving around twin gynecologists (both played by Jeremy Irons, in one of the greatest feats of acting I have ever witnessed) who both become obsessed with the same woman, who has a rare gynecological malformation, betrays the mastery of storytelling on display. The film takes the viewer not only through a descent into madness, culminating in one of the most disturbing off-screen climaxes in film history, but also a journey into a complete loss of personal identity. The twins, each with their own faults and identities, are dragged into a world of drug-fueled confusion. Just as the viewer gains the ability to differentiate between the two (thanks to Irons’ brilliant acting), the twins begin to lose their ability to differentiate between one another. Just as the viewer gains a foothold, we see the main characters losing theirs.

Cronenberg’s mid-to-later work also covers issues of subjective reality. Unfortunately, many people point to sub par work like eXistenZ to illustrate this movement in his career, probably because it’s easy and heavy-handed. Better examples of this theme can be found in films like Naked Lunch and Spider. I’ll leave eXistenZ dead on the table. It’s a serviceable sci-fi adventure movie, but by no means anything worth discussing (not unlike A History of Violence, but also not nearly as good).

In his attempt to adapt William S. Burroughs’ beat classic Naked Lunch, Cronenberg doesn’t so much as translate the book to screen as he tries to adapt Burroughs’ general story telling style, incorporating aspects of Burroughs’ personal life as well as other works, into film format. I have never read any Burroughs, so I cannot speak to Cronenberg’s success in this regard, but I will say that the film is amazing. Part-noir thriller, part 8 ½-style examination into the creative process, part-drug induced disconnect from “objective”-reality cautionary tale, Naked Lunch is a thrilling, confusing, entertaining film that has features amazing special effects, great performances, and a plot that is as gripping as it is intractable. The film progresses like a fever dream, you understand what is happening, but for the life of you, you can’t make sense of any of it.

Spider, on the other hand, is a less exciting, more deliberate exploration into the idea of subjective reality. I don’t think the word “schizophrenia” is ever mentioned, but it’s at least a solid adjective for this atmospheric film. As our protagonist, a middle-aged man recently moved from a mental institution to a half-way house, tries to piece together his past, we follow along as “Spider” attempts to sift through years of delusions, hallucinations, and half-forgotten memories. The brilliance of Spider lies in its ability to start the viewer in a place of total confusion, build trust along with Spider as his memories convalesce, lead us along to a place that seems to be real, only to drop the floor out from under us. We are left to piece together the incongruent aspects of a story told by a deranged mental patient. Granted, this movie is extremely slow (again, I prefer “deliberately paced”), but hopefully the style and atmosphere are enough keep your interest through to the end of this very rewarding story.

Given A History of Violence’s continuation of this identity/reality theme (albeit in a much less interesting and less enlightening fashion) and its incorporation of noir tropes is in interesting turn. Considering what I’ve seen of his newest film, Eastern Promises, this seems to be yet another shift in Cronenberg’s illustrious career. Who knows, maybe years from now, I’ll look back on something like A History of Violence and see it as a turning point towards new themes, new styles, and an open future for Mr. Cronenberg. For now I’ll maintain that A History of Violence is overrated and leave you with a list of must-sees from the Cronenberg archives:

Shivers (aka They Came from Within): If you are interested in seeing how Cronenberg has developed not only his ideas, but as a director in general, it’s a fantastic way to start. Not only because it’s his first, but also because it’s a fun-ass movie.

Videodrome: A true masterpiece. Regardless of what you think of Cronenberg, you should still definitely see this movie. An excellent example of body-horror, as well as the greatest of Cronenberg’s early work

Dead Ringers: Arguably a second masterpiece, coming only five years after Videodrome. An amazing movie and a wonderful starting point for delving into Cronenberg’s second era.

Other notables, though hardly required: the Brood, Naked Lunch, Spider.

I don’t expect to change many minds. If you’re dead set against Cronenberg, there isn’t a whole lot I can do to change that. But, at the very least, I’m hoping to give some perspective on why everyone who isn’t an idiot is in love with this man’s work.

DEATH TO VIDEODROME! LONG LIVE THE NEW FLESH!

My evening with Dean and Gene

I recently was given an opportunity that I had been awaiting for years. The chance to see Ween live in concert! Not only that, but it was “an evening with Ween,” which means that there are no openers and they play for like 3 hours. Truly, an event not to be missed.

The show was at Stubb’s, a BBQ joint with a big outdoor amphitheater behind the restaurant. Yup, that’s right, it was at a blues venue that doubles as a popular BBQ restaurant. Welcome to Texas. It was a surprisingly early show, doors opened at 7pm, with the show set to start sometime around 8:30pm.

Stubb’s is about two and a half to three miles away from my apartment, and due to my hatred for all things exercise related, I’ve taken to walking any place within a few miles in an effort to get some kind of exercise. Since the show was so early, my three mile walk was done while the sun was up and the temperature was pushing 100 degrees, maybe not the best idea to walk there, but I did it anyways. Basically before the show even started, I was tired, sweaty, and hot as all hell. Oh well. I downed a bunch of water before switching to beer for the show.

Now, I don’t know what kind of people I’ve become friends with, but upon asking around to find someone to go to the show with, the conversation usually went something like:

Friend: “Who are you going to see?”

Me: “Ween”

Friend: “I’ve never heard of them…” then either “Who are they?” or “What do they sing?”

Me: “Well, uh… If you don’t know the name, I seriously doubt they’ve had anything like a radio hit. Maybe ‘Voodoo Lady’”

Friend: “Well, what kind of music do they play?”

Me: “Um… they basically play every kind of music, except for maybe rap…”

Friend: “Oh, how much is it?”

Me: “$25”

Friend: “Thanks, but I’ll pass”

So I ended up going alone, which is fine. Concerts aren’t really events that require a whole lot of small talk and chitchat. It allowed me time to do some people watching, and if you’ve never been to a Ween concert, there is no finer place to people watch. Just about every race, age, subculture, and combination thereof were in attendance. Hippies, punks, metalheads, hipsters, frat guys, sorority girls, office-jockeys, and just plain skeezy weirdoes were all around. Ages ranged anywhere from 8 years old to 50-somethings.

But I was pleasantly surprised to run into a fellow grad student named Tyler and his girlfriend. We basically talked about how kick-ass Ween is and how shitty Philadelphia is (I was a little out of the loop on that second topic, but I’ve been there once, and it was pretty dirty). We talked shop for a little bit, nerdy grad student yammering, then the concert started.

Ween came out in a haze of artificial smoke and started the show off with a rabble-rousing rendition of “the H.I.V. Song”. From then on out, it became a non-stop flood of Ween. I can’t remember the exact set list. I started out trying to remember all the songs in order, but that soon turned into just trying to remember all the songs, which then turned into just trying to remember some of the songs. I know they played such fan favorites as “Ocean Man”, “Voodoo Lady”, and “Baby Bitch”. They also played some personal favorites like “I Can’t Put My Finger On It”, “Transdermal Celebration”, and “I’ll be Your Johnny on the Spot”. It’d probably be easier just to say that the only songs I wanted to hear and didn’t were “It’s Gonna Be a Long Night” and “Hey There, Fancy Pants”. I must say, I have four of their albums, and I still didn’t recognize almost half the songs they played. Their catalogue is a lot deeper than I gave them credit for.

Their set tended toward their more rock’n’roll songs. Even the songs that are not exactly solid “rock” songs (e.g. “Spinal Meningitis (Got Me Down)”, “Zoloft”) were twisted into rollicking garage rock anthems. Loud guitars with yelled lyrics. Hearing an amphitheater of people all scream the lyrics to a song like “the Zoloft Song” is a pretty incredible experience. Even their songs that started out as pretty rock or pop oriented (e.g. “Voodoo Lady”) were extended into ten minute long hard rock jam sessions. Now, I abhor jam bands, but goddamn, those Ween boys can jam on a song for as long as they damn well please, and I will stand in awe, loving every drawn out minute of it. It didn’t matter if they were rocking out a ballad or grooving on a metal slowjam, those boys know how to put on a show.

As I mentioned, it was pushing 100 degrees outside when I got to the venue. The sunset did little to lower the temperature, and by the time the show started the venue was packed practically shoulder-to-shoulder, chest-to-back. This only pushed the temperature up, I’d estimate somewhere in the neighborhood of 1,000,000 degrees, give or take. With this amazing show going, I couldn’t not dance the night away, sweating every drop of fluid out of my body. By the end, I found it to be a personal challenge to outlast the band. I refused to give up as long as they were playing. When the end of the show finally came I’m pretty sure I wasn’t so much dancing as I was swaying in some kind of heatstroke induced seizure. I made it, though. First thing I did to celebrate this amazing feat was to run to the bathroom. I’m not sure how I managed to sweat out half my body weight and still have a full bladder, but I did it. A small victory in its own right, I guess.

Ultimately, Ween put on a show so good, that it managed to surpass my already unreasonably high expectations. I would say that it may have been even better than being born. If you learn anything in life, ever, it’s that Ween kicks ass.