Saturday, May 19, 2007

It was 'Another Perfect Day'

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I went to see the mighty, majestic and all around wonderful Lemmy Kilmister play with his band The Head Cat at Peabody’s with a headache. Of course this is the worst possible place to go for a show even if you have something as trivial as a hangnail. I guess what that means is that Peabody’s has a tendency to make me sick, make me angry and make my wallet fall light after way too many tall cans of cheap, shit beer. So when some thick neck security guy informed me that I had to give him the memory card from my camera while Mr. Kilmister was dazzling me with interpretations of Buddy Holly and Credence songs, I immediately started penning a vicious call to arms; asking all of my faithful Cleveland drunkards to stand up and ban this corporate trickery.

I was seething but I couldn’t help but smile at my hero who stood on stage brilliantly smoking a cigarette in a town that is trying to get it’s citizens on board with the idea of a smoke free Ohio. I love that man (No, I really do. I’m not jumping on any sort of band wagon. My roommates and I once named the house cat after him and those two big warts).

Post drink purchase, I happened across the guard who nabbed my memory card. He took me to the office and slipped a card off of a table and handed it to me. In all, there were only two there. Either no one else thought enough of Lemmy to bring their photo takinf devices or myself and someone else were made to be examples. No worry, it was nice that they gave me the card back.

Then I see that he had made a drastic mistake and given me someone else’s card. Was this merely an oversight or do they have piles of old cards lying about to replace ones from customers that may be holding important photos that they laughingly erase (I had photos from Wrestlemania 23 on mine for God’s sake)?

It was just a mistake.

In fact everyone was way nice in sorting it all out. The security guard even let me know that he didn’t give any sort of a fuck… all part of the job, you see. I put the card back into my camera and checked to see if they had invaded my personal space and erased my memories (something of which the beer was doing just fine at).

There was Mr. Kilmister.

It all ended well and everyone walked out smelling of roses and High Life. Aside from ruining the last half-hour of the show for me, I’d say everything went smoothly that night and I have to give my second least favorite venue in town (well, does the Phantasy even count as a venue anymore?) a deserved, if not reluctant, clap of the hands (only one!).

I’d be foolish not to mention the band that truly blew my mind (well, the Lemmy-less one), Slack-Jawed Yokels. Let me start by saying that they’re from somewhere around Medina. Their myspace page says Granger Township. I have no idea where that is. I don’t care frankly. There’s no way a kid from the city was going to write these ruckus numbers full of stupid lyrics about drinking and rocking. Their guitar player killed it, man. They all did. They also look a little nerdy which is bonus.

Sample Lyric (I know that I am butchering this but the show was almost a week ago): ‘We’re going down to Kentuck/There’s lots of liquor stores there/We’re gonna buy us some beer/Slack Jawed-Yokels going to the liquor store!’

Uncle Scratch was great too. Brother Ant shattered a bottle of beer toward the end of their last set (USGR often play between bands… in corners, in parking lots, wherever the spirit suggests). The glass fell down on Brother Ed like some sort of divine shower from the heavens. I hope more then the blood of Christ was shed.

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