Send in the Clowns
March 27, 2008
By Dominique LeJeunesse
Posted 10/19/2006
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I’d recently learned that male ICP fans are referred to as Juggalos and the females, Juggalettes. These are not casual fans. Juggalos adapt a lifestyle that entails donning clown makeup, owning as much band merchandise as possible, attending annual gatherings, and immersing their lives in ICP Culture. You know, like joining up with your favorite religious cult. So be it—I was intrigued. If a Juggalette had a baby with a regular person, was it considered a Juggalo? If a Juggalo sweats on me, do I become one when the moon is full?
The theme of the night was lines. In the line to get into the show, I became eerily aware of my surroundings. At the very least, 80 percent of the crowd was wearing clown makeup and ICP apparel. I guess the old adage of “Don’t wear the shirt of the band you’re going to see” is not in the Juggalo handbook.
Once inside, I stood in another line to get to the bar—my first and foremost goal for the night. I am terrified of clowns. I was surrounded by people dressed like them. Two minutes into the bar line, I got my ass grabbed—quite firmly, I might add—by a clown who then pointed to his Juggalette as though she were the culprit. I could only stand there speechless and shaking my head. Put that in your It sequel, Stephen King.
At Saltair, you have to purchase a membership to get into the Salt Lick bar—because surely you’ll be making the drive to Saltair 10 times over the course of three weeks for martinis. But, at least the drinks were reasonably priced.
During all my line standing, there were three opening bands.
The first band, Wolfpac, made me believe in earplugs. Their only saving grace: A dancing evil midget. Everybody needs one of those. Band No. 2, Boondox, had girl-on-girl stripper action and portable stripper poles—thank you technology! Thirdly, not smooth jazz, as their name had led me to think, was Subnoize Souljaz. No strippers, no clowns, no midgets … but they were shirtless! My brain tends to block out traumatic moments, so that set is a blur.
In the restroom, there was an array of Juggalettes touching up their clown makeup, making me feel silly for simply reapplying my boring lipstick. I hear the men’s restroom was just as cramped for mirror time, since it had been raining.
ICP finally came on, and they did have an impressive stage set. The crowd was more into them than I had ever seen at a show, singing all the words and chanting. Apparently, ICP also have a soda line called Faygo—Lil John and Diddy eat your hearts out. They sprayed the Saltair audience with gallons of it, and then covered them in confetti—the equivalent of being tarred and feathered?
I was convinced I’d meet my demise at this show, but the crowd was actually just as docile as any show I’d ever been too—minus the ass-grabbery. I do, however, continue to be amazed by the legions of hardcore followers Insane Clown Posse have. The show and music were lacking any substance that I could comprehend, and it still inspired this many people to come out in droves. Maybe it’s something in the Faygo.
Just Doin’ It
March 27, 2008
By Dominique LaJanuesse
Posted 06/14/2007
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I haven’t had much business in Liberty Park for years. It’s nice for running, as long as you don’t mind the occasional nest of bugs swarming at your face. But creatures with beaks are on my list of irrational fears (you have one bad goose experience …) so you won’t see me feeding the ducks, and I really have outgrown ruling the playground.
Of course, there are plenty of activities for most people to enjoy at the park: Barbecues, The Tracy Aviary, possibly a night stabbing, some good old-fashioned people-watching and—if you’re into it—the notorious Sunday drum circle.
Since my hacky sack was at the cleaners, June 3 turned out to be a bad day for drum circling. Instead, I joined Uprok Records for the local shop’s summer kick-off—a little something they call “Doin’ It at the Park,” which just so happened to conflict with Pride’s festivities downtown. Curiosity beat out diversity and, since you learn by “doin’” …
Of course, the most I could come up with was a MySpace page (MySpace.com/UprokRecords) reaffirming the music store’s involvement. I had no idea what I was getting into.
In my defense, the phrase “doin’ it” can be taken any number of ways, perverts.
After finding a pithy bit of information, and unaware of a start-to-finish time, or where in the park the event was taking place, I circled until I used deductive reasoning that the event was not the children on the playground, the guy sunbathing or the drum circle, but the pavilion filled with loud music and fly folk.
I was expecting angry hip-hop and people rapping but what I stumbled upon was some of my favorite ’70s funk and some old school hip-hop with kids taking turns on a break-dancing mat.
I watched them and watched everyone watching them, and then wandered around to the surrounding areas to check out what others were doin’.
They had some boards set up with spray-paint cans and people working on graffiti art. So far, this seemed very participant-oriented and, as I am an itinerary person, I wasn’t quite sure in which order events were supposed to be happening, if any at all.
After asking around to see if other things would be happening—in or out of order—most people had no idea. So, I turned around, stepped in a giant quicksand puddle of mud to cool down (OK, the puddle jumped me) and made my own graffiti sculpture of mud in a weak attempt to clean off my feet, followed by that discomfiting “Hey guys! Nothing happened. I will sit around and watch a bit longer with an island in my shoe” moment.
With no time frame or clue whether there’d me more to do, I headed home to unravel the mysteries of Doin’ It at the Park.
The best thing for promotional purposes would be to have a schedule of events for next time so that I would not feel so befuddled and so that passersby could stop, hang out for a bit, figure out what was going on and pass this information along to their friends. Perhaps I missed it, or perhaps it just hadn’t been outlined.
In short, all I know is that Doin’ It includes an Emcee Battle complete with break-dancers. At the beginning of the day, graffiti art can be made and meat—bring your own—can be grilled. It will be happening again July 1, Aug. 5 and Sept. 2.
If you find yourself in the park’s vicinity between 2 and 10 p.m. on these dates, you may want to watch it all unfold with a friend. I will meander back with a slightly better idea as to how it works but with the same confused look I always have on my face.
Oh, and make sure to bring your break-dancing clothes. Show the most def break-dancer of our time how it’s done, son!
By Dominique LaJeunesse
Posted 12/27/2007
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I made it there safely and walked into a room where a bunch of men stood screamingmanly things that only testosterone overload can fuel. That, and steroids. After regaining my hearing, I sat down at one of the tables. The ambience was so atmospherically curious that I expected couch humping and blow snorting to commence.
The best part of The Huka is the sweet, succulent tobacco you get to smoke there, out of, well a huka. You are invited to choose: Do I want to ruin my liver or lungs tonight? Liver? Lungs? I opted for both. New Year’s is coming up, and I can resolve to fix them both at a later date. I wanted to be sure I knew whom I was sharing my huka with. No surprise strains of mono for this lady! Happily enough, the club provides you with your very own plastic tips—or, as I like to call them, huka condoms. The irony of the bar is that you cannot smoke cigarettes inside. Fine with me; the bar did have a pleasant aroma of a distinguished gentleman’s jacket.
Though I was interested in seeing The Huka in its full glory, I was actually mainly there to watch One Punch (formerly known as Afro Omega), a damned-good dub-rock group packing heat out of Salt Lake City. I was too late to talk to the band about their name change, and drummer Josh “Mancrush” Dixon (sorry, dudes, he is taken) was not quite sure of the reasons behind the switch, either. But he does play an impeccable high hat and snare drum—and that’s what really matters.
Consensus? Huka crowd: bad. One Punch: good. At least for one night. As the bar filled, I started to regret that fact that I had made the harrowing drive. I couldn’t drink myself into a coma of tolerance. If popped collars were still in, that place would have been littered with them. The term “trick-ass bitch”? Probably coined at this establishment. I saw more hoochie mama than I have in my nightmares and heard more transparent conversation than my eardrums could handle. Favorite pick up line? “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bump into you. Actually, I did. Heh. Heh. Heh.”
Favorite bathroom conversation—crack-skinny girls complaining that they should not eat sushi anymore because it has too many carbs and that the bathroom mirror makes them look fat.
I was in the “hubble-bubble” of a superficial-personality planet, with no hope of salvation. The few people I ran into that evening were there on accident, or by kidnapping, I am not sure which.
Plus, the drinks were spendy. I was convinced I might have to pay off my tab by doing dishes.
You know when you have this look on your face, and you aren’t trying to intentionally make it and somebody comes up to you and says “What’s wrong?” and you say “Oh, nothing. I didn’t know I was making that face.” I was intentionally making that face the whole time. Apparently, chivalry is checked at the door here, too. I have never been bumped so rudely this many times in my life. You bump your mother with that shoulder, people?
It’s this kind of rude behavior that gives good clubs a bad name. When I check out One Punch again, it might be at a different venue—or maybe at the Huka Bar & Grill—just a different night.
The Farcade Fire Show
March 27, 2008
By Dominique LaJeunesse
Posted 09/27/2007
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I didn’t move to Utah for snowboarding. I take the end of summer harder than a toddler throwing a fit over the lollipop that they can’t have in the grocery store, screaming “Mommy, you suck!” So, what better, and less embarrassing panacea than a kick-ass concert in the middle of Utah County to quell these feelings of cold contempt?
Admittedly, everyone was baffled by LCD Soundsystem and Arcade Fire’s decision to perform at Thanksgiving Point, a venue typically associated with weddings and Halloween activities. Either they wanted something nontraditional or someone didn’t know what they were doing. Or did they? Were we just clueless about the Point’s appeal?
If you haven’t lived there, gotten lost there, or have some sort of aberrant fascination with dinosaurs, you’d have no clue where Lehi, Utah is located. Granted, it was nice to get a change of scenery, and after driving around much of the country this summer to catch some of my favorite bands, I was grateful that this show was nearer-by so that I may save some of this gas money that had been plaguing my paychecks as of late.
We kicked off the night with a tailgate party, something I assumed many others would participate in, but looking around the T-Giving Point parking lot, it seemed we were the only ones drinking our beverages out of reality TV show cups—scarlet red flags of alcoholism. But while no one joined us, no one narced us out either. We quickly accepted the fact that yes, we are the old people rearing to hear some music that most of the 15-year-olds in attendance would be embarrassed to see me dancing to.
Later, after one short pat-down by security (yes, they search thoroughly and no, alcohol is not served inside. Get clever or get over it), we were in the show. LCD Soundsystem almost immediately took the stage, ready to move Bruce Springsteen out of the way because they were the new Boss in town. I’ve heard all of their albums (the few that there are) and was blown away watching their commanding presence onstage. I don’t care how shitty of a dancer I am, I was participating the whole time. I had to take advantage of the fact that they may never set their sights on Salt Lake City again—although James Murphy repeatedly commented on the awesome mountains which, “We don’t get to see in New York City.” I hope they return. Murphy’s unique voice and electro-pop-rock is downright irresistible.
LCD is a hard act to follow, no doubt, but Arcade Fire is a force to be reckoned with—and clearly the group 99.8 percent of the audience came to see. Everyone gathered around in anticipation. I shimmied my way through to find friends with only a few sardonic “What the hell do you think you are doing” or “No, you aren’t sorry” comments.
Arcade Fire boldly announced their presence onstage with more gusto and bandmates than a whorehouse in Wyoming. There were lights, and live feed video of band members playing with gusto. Every instrument you could think of—and many more that you would never imagine—was ready to be banged, plucked, pounded, tossed in the air and generally manipulated to achieve transcendent melodies. They even packed in piano pipes that rival the Mormon Tabernacle Choir’s.
The young crowd went wild as a 6-foot-plus Win Butler broke into song with a lush, deep voice that earns him comparisons to Bowie. I get it, but I think they have their sound is unique as a whole—a sort of frenzied hymnal rock symphony that started as a cult following (sans the Kool-Aid) but that continues to gain speed in more mainstream quadrants. Arcade Fire doesn’t tour (promoters book them by request), especially not in the United States, and now I understand why people went nuts when they found out the Canadian group would be appearing in little old Utah. They sounded powerful and all encompassing. All eight, er, nine, um, make that 10 members? I couldn’t keep count.
After a unique demand for an encore—the crowd spontaneously started humming a refrain from one Arcade Fire song in unison until the band returned—they launched into “Old Flame,” an old number released prior to their name-making Funeral. They finished up with “Wake Up,” a cathartic song that satiated the now-sweaty and exhilarated audience. I’m guessing everyone was smiling, but since I’d succumbed to a nasty case of hiccups, so I listened to the remaining anthems in a sprawling parking lot. Amazingly , the sound was just as awesome outside the venue as it was within.
Turns out Lehi is alright. It was nice to wave goodbye to summer with this concert, but something tells me there won’t be many similar experiences in the near future. I do, however, look forward to many haystack rides in a hundred-acre fantasyland should I ever again choose a Thanksgiving Point adventure.
The B Is Silent
March 27, 2008
By Dominique LaJeunesse
Posted 08/09/2007
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Ryan Adams and his former alt-country band Whiskeytown have been two of my guiltiest pleasures since I was a wee lass. I used to hide my affections but, through open and honest communication with friends who think he should crawl into a hole the size of his gigantic ego and never return, I shout my love to the rafters.
Ryan Adams has been accused (rightfully so, I might add) of being a difficult prima donna but, like the stereotypical woman who falls in love with bad boys, I don’t necessarily care how musicians behave—my main concern is enjoying how they perform onstage. I am not trying to forge a bond or relationship with the artist; I’m merely there to enjoy the show. When I found out Adams and his band of Cardinals were playing Red Butte Garden July 31, I made a point to head to the mountains for what seemed like an awesome outdoor concert.
When telling my fellow man how eager I was to see Ryan Adams in concert, I got befuddled looks followed by the ever-so-predictable “Bryan Adams is still touring?”—referring to the Canadian pop singer responsible for such cloying hits as “Everything I Do (I Do It for You)” and “Run to You.” I of course told them, “The B is silent.”
Red Butte is amazing. It’s like going to a concert in the woods, but without too many hippies. I know that most foreboding stories start out with a dark gloomy night, the threat of rain and wind looming, but potential storms couldn’t overshadow the pleasure of drinking wine—wine that I was allowed to bring in as a responsible adult! Without being forced into a cage or to pound my drinks in the parking lot beforehand. Imagine that.
The crowd was an eclectic mix of the music lover who doesn’t-give-a-damn-what-he-is-listening-to-he-will-dance-no-matter-what, plus college students, parents and children. They all seemed to be enjoying themselves.
Perhaps I was enjoying myself a little too much. When one of the venue organizer’s came onstage to assumedly pacify the crowd for the late show start and to read off a lengthy list of sponsors, I zoned out like Charlie Brown or my teenage self in high school when I thought to myself in class, “I really hate math. I will never need math. Therefore, I will zone out on something prettier” while the teacher discussed algorithms. (Or logarithms; I’m really not sure.) But my not listening to the concert announcement proved far more disastrous than my slacker student ways turned out to be.
Turns out flash photos were only allowed in the first row for the initial two songs. After that, it was “Back that ass up and get yo’ flash outta here.” OK, so I was a bit late, but security took its duties (at the request of, surprise! the artist) a bit too seriously putting the smack down repeatedly as I tried to take a decent shot of the scruffy, sunglasses-wearing Adams.
I’m fine with rules and regulations, so long as they are followed in a rational manner. But, you put hundreds—if not thousands—of people into one venue, and mistakes are bound to be made. Once told a rule, I will abide, for I fear trouble. Unfortunately, that didn’t matter on this night. At least four security guards told me to turn off my flash when my flash was nonexistent. This led to an altercation with a security guard whom I was politely trying to convince that my flash was not only off, but that I had punched it to death in order to ensure no Cameras Gone Wild would happen at this concert.
Oh, but the concert was well worth it—at least, that’s the feeling I walked away with. I thought Adams could croon his way into any alt-country lover’s heart but, apparently, his prissy attitude and relative lack of interaction with the audience (save for comments about his vocals, annoying bees and getting pissed at someone who asked him to play faster) turned off some once-loyal fans, one of whom promised he’d “Never buy another one of that douchebag’s albums ever again.” Well! I guess I’ve just been to too many live shows where the artist is so mixed and mastered that he/she doesn’t sound a stitch like I expect them too, but Ryan Adams, faulty photos, prima-donna antics and all, put on one hell of a show. The man has talent to spare and if he dares make his way through Utah again, I will be there with cameras … off.
Sacrifice for the SOV
March 27, 2008
By Dominique LaJeunesse
Posted 05/03/2007
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Over the years there has been a steady decline in the quality of her musical prowess, inspired by the business practice of doing things to make her seem more excitable. Duh—I know she is hot and, granted, lyrics don’t always need to be profound when the music is playful and danceable, but her work doesn’t even border that line. It is flat-out absurd.
Gwen has taken the opportunity of fame to pepper her music with lyrics whoring out her clothing line that’s so expensive only someone within her financial bracket can afford it. Then, to make matters more irritating, in her music videos she prances around with a big giant G on everything and anything that you can fit a big giant G on, as though we may forget the first letter of her name if it is not stabbed into our eyeballs every three seconds.
But, like all those people we hear about doing stuff for the good of mankind, I too had to do this little thing called Making a Sacrifice.
U.K. hip-hop artist Lady Sovereign is currently touring with Gwen Stefani, and Lady Sovereign is a badass. The self-proclaimed Biggest Midget in the Business (hey, I don’t think anyone else has jumped on the title, so feel free to fight her for it) already has an arch nemesis in the feisty British female rap world by the name of Shystie.
Since she might not be as wildly popular in the United States and is likely friends with Gavin Rossdale—all British people know each other—she just so happened to be on the bill with Gwen.
I showed up at the E Center for the battle of the women on April 30, not quite sure what the hoi polloi would end up being like.
There was more jailbait than you could shake a beer wristband at. Just when I started speculating as to how their mothers had let them out of the house looking that way, I realized their mothers were right by their sides and quite possibly even more skankily clad.
Lady Sovereign came onstage first and gave me the warm welcome I anticipated. People have cited her as the female Eminem, but I think she outshone the bad-boy rapper by not being offensive just for the hell of it. She also exceeded my expectations of seeing her live. Surprisingly, there were quite a few Sovereignmaniacs there as well, dressing like her and holding up signs in her honor.
Akon performed next—since I am not that impressed with R&B to begin with, I sat that one out in the hallway of the E Center and realized, regrettably, that he had a seemingly longer set than Sovereign’s.
Up next was the much anticipated Gwen. I had seen her overpriced merch in the hallway, her look-alikes roaming around as well and, with much ado about everything, she blasted onstage with one of her radio hits. I am loath to admit that at first I was thoroughly impressed. She had a presence that I hadn’t expected, leading me to think that perhaps I might pick up a $60 tank top on my way out the door. But, after song No. 3, things fizzled out and it became more of a ballad night as opposed to the evening of upbeat dance-rock that might have sold me.
There is a moral to every story, though: I will happily prance to any Lady Sovereign show, no matter who she is playing with. And, mothers, keep your daughters out of the short-shorts. Maybe even send them to private school, because the share of trollers that I witnessed at the E Center were enough to form the beginnings of a Jodie Foster movie.
A Night at the Opry
March 27, 2008
By Dominique LaJeunesse
Posted 04/12/2007
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While you suckers were getting ready to dash out to the bar on Saturday, April 7, I was broadening my horizons by taking in the cabaret theater show The Phantom of the Grand Ole Opry at the Desert Star Theatre. You may know the Desert Star from its work as a well-lit neon sign that catches the eye at State Street and 4800 South.
I’ve never done cabaret or dinner theater. Call me naïve, but for some reason, I envisioned monocles, butlers and the prospect of a murder mystery unfolding in the middle of my dinnertime conversation about a widow. I blame that damned board game/movie Clue.
Though not quite familiar with the specifics of dinner theater’s origins, I came to understand it was supposed give the feel of a barn in the Wild West. At least that’s what the Desert Star looked like—have one experience and you’ve experienced them all, right?
Seating was arranged around a big stage, your tables and chairs I-love-my-neighbor close. Provided was a bowl of popcorn as an appetizer. OK, so cabaret is a bit different than dinner theater. With the cabaret menu, you have the options of pizza, appetizers and plenty of desserts—they call it “fun finger foods.” The dinner theater has an actual buffet set up, booze even available. Before showtime, a waitress comes to take your order.
Back in the cabaret, I ate the most random meal I’ve ingested since junior high: Popcorn, chicken strips, fries, mozzarella sticks and garlic bread. It was kind of like raiding my mom’s freezer before movie time, praying that the panoply of delicious fried food I had inhaled would all stay in my stomach.
A lot of the people who were there that night were regulars. “How would you know that?” you ask. Prior to the opening, a show of hands is asked about who’s new and who isn’t, followed by a thorough explanation of how the show works. The production required some audience participation. Booing and cheering on cue. Hissing, my personal favorite, was optional.
While I’m not schooled in Broadway musicals, I know the basic premise of The Phantom of the Opera; this show was a parody of that, set in the Grand Ole Opry, with the characters playing country stars who have performed there.
It was humorous, energetic, definitely something people of all ages could attend. The chance of offending anyone was essentially zero. In order to understand the comedy of it all, however, you truly would have to be from Utah—a lot of Pretty, Great State jokes were strategically placed within the show.
Because I am the big, fat ruiner of endings, the Phantom ended up being the nefarious Kenny Rogers, who had gotten too much plastic surgery and was ashamed of it. I mean, come on—who doesn’t like a large story buildup that ends with the whole plot based around making fun of Kenny Rogers? Me, I’ve had it in for that bastard since high school. During outdoor gym class, Kenny Rogers Roasters loomed nearby, forcing the smell of his cursed food upon us. I still wonder how that empire ended up crumbling.
The one drawback of the night was that after the show had ended, I thought we could leave. I’m assuming that, due to the fact that they needed to hand out bills for food orders, we had to be stalled into witnessing an extra half hour of short skits.
I don’t even stay for the end credits of a movie, so I was ready to call it a night. However, this did end up being a refreshing change of pace from my typical Saturday night. I’ll be willing subject myself again; I may even delve into the mysterious workings of the dinner theater experience.
Pork Tails
March 27, 2008
By Dominique LaJeunesse
Posted 03/15/2007
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I decided to take a chance anyway and actually leave the house on one—March 5 to be exact. Pat’s Barbecue was hosting a blues band, oh-so-fitting for a bleak Monday. The fact that I got to repeatedly say “blues, brews and barbecue” in one sentence made me all tingly.
Pat’s Barbecue—a deceptive name for a restaurant, I know. Who’s Pat? I’d been asked when telling people I’d be going to Pat’s Barbecue. Well, the name Pat was a clue that this was the name of the person that owns the place. It’s a place that has barbecue, but not a person’s place that is having a barbecue. Just re-read that sentence a few times, it’ll make sense. Maybe.
Pat’s Barbecue is located on 155 W. Commonwealth (2125 South)—and for us directionally challenged, a bit tricky to find. Many U-turns and curse words later, an obviously placed sign pointing the place out popped up out of nowhere—I swear—and I was on my way.
Looking at the outside, I wasn’t sure if Pat’s was a bar or a restaurant. But, once I was inside, it was obviously a restaurant with a bar feel, minus the damned cigarettes that, yes, I had just quit on this Monday.
From the entrance to the end, there were strategically placed picnic tables. In the main restaurant area, there was a stage set up at the end, where our blues band Too Slim & The Tail Draggers would be presenting themselves. The prospect of being able to order food, drink beer and watch a band was the embodiment of all my lusts rolled into one.
I am a loather of the Other White Meat. Pork makes me shiver. However, somewhere along this journey called life, I developed a penchant for pulled-pork sandwiches. I had to see if they would meet my expectations here. Oh, blessed barbecue: Pat’s sauce on my sandwich was so delicious that that I wanted to drink a mug of it. They also brought me out a whole roll of paper towels. It’s amazing; if I even look at food, it has a tendency to spill into my lap.
While relishing in my meal, the band came out and introduced themselves. They’re from Washington and were not the straight-up blues band I’d been expecting. As the set went on, the music did have a bluesy sound, but it also ranged from country to rock & roll and various combos of all three. Tim “Too Slim” Langford also played a mean slide guitar.
TS&T played for two straight hours, rolling out a seemingly unending encyclopedia of music. This was fitting for the mood of the restaurant crowd, all obviously enjoying the music and food. No beer bottles were broken in rowdy fashion, nor guitars smashed into amps, but it was a lively set nonetheless.
With a head and belly fully of blues, brews and barbecue (tee-hee, I said it again) the show ended at 9 p.m., perfect for those of us who are still grasping the fact that it’s a “school” night and time to go home and prepare for Monday’s evil little brother, Tuesday.
I was unaware of Pat’s Barbecue previously, but I’ll definitely go back; they have live music on a regular basis. Paired with the food—as much as I love trying to get in 17 hours of television a day—it was the sum of all things I’d rather do on a weeknight.
Holy Musical!
March 27, 2008
By Dominique LaJeunesse
Posted 02/15/2007
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What better way to do so than by witnessing a musical documenting the last seven days of the big man’s life in the form of Jesus Christ Superstar?
For those of you unaware, Jesus Christ Superstar is a rock opera that made its debut in 1971. I’ve never heard nor seen it—only been curious of its presence for many years. I asked a friend who was familiar with the producton what exactly I was in for. He replied, “If Elton John and Dr. Seuss mated and their offspring wrote the Bible, Jesus Christ Superstar would have been what was manifested.” Sign me up!
The rock opera was actually born to Tim Rice and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Ted Neeley started out as the original movie Jesus and, treat of all treats, I found out he was currently touring with this production. I wasn’t sure how well he was going to do putting the Jesus robes back on, being 63—nearly twice the age at which Real Jesus died. Well, if Harrison Ford can do another Indiana Jones, I had the faith.
Shortly thereafter, I heard that Neeley had fallen ill and his understudy had been filling in for previous performances and getting less than stellar reviews. I arrived at Kingsbury Hall on the Sabbath of Feb. 11 and waited for the panoply of music to unfurl before me.
The lights dimmed and a slow-motion fight scene ensued, revealing Judas: Corey Glover, more than pulling his weight. With all of his pain and remorse for the evil deeds that lay in wait for him, he could belt out the tunes like the true former rock frontman of Living Colour that he was (not to be confused with ’90s TV’s In Living Color).
But who appeared out of the shadows to come lead us in a spiritual singathon? Ted Neeley—he was back and holier than ever. The crowd cheered as though it were Real Jesus himself.
For never having seen the show, as it went through each and every act, I was preternaturally familiar with almost all of the songs; I even knew most of the words to them. They must have been slowly channeled into my brain during various courses of life.
The show went through the order of the last seven days of Christ’s life the way that I remember learning them. Mary Magdalene loving many men in many ways (she sang those words, not me) and Jesus defending those wily ways to Judas with my favorite high-pitched This Is Going to Be a Good Angry Song yowl.
Then came people questioning Jesus as the Savior, Jesus getting harried because he couldn’t help everyone at once, then discouraged because it was all predestined, The Last Supper, Judas betraying Jesus with a kiss and Peter denying him—all to a slightly pornographic-sounding ’70’s-rock backdrop. It became apparent to me that Jesus’ friends were kind of flaky.
The end, as we all know, came with the Crucifixion. I know this wasn’t The Passion of the Christ, but it did seem a bit sugarcoated in order to make our feel-goods a bit more blithe, considering the gravity of the outcome. The final ending consisted of a pimped-out Judas angel, sunglasses and all jumping in on a ballad with on-again off-again “best friends forever” Jesus in angel form.
Yeah, it was cheesy, but much like an 8-year-old likes to learn things the fun way!, these really are the moments that I live for when soaking up knowledge about my religious historical moments. It was super Christastic!
Little Miss Suedeshine
March 27, 2008
By Dominique LaJeunesse
Posted 02/01/2007
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Ever since Ego’s met its demise as a live music venue and became the cleverly (re)named Shaggy’s dance club last year, I’ve been feeling a lack of Devotchka in my life. The former Ego’s regulars are a Denver band, though you would never know it by their music—think gypsies, minus the did-I-just-get-ripped-off? feeling—reminiscent of French marketplace gigs. I have never been to France … I digress.
While watching Little Miss Sunshine recently, the music sounded comfortingly familiar. As the closing credits rolled, I said to myself, “Oh my God, it’s Devotchka—damn it, I need to see them again!”
Salt Lake City is experiencing a shortage of decent music venues, and former Ego’s booker Charlie Newman has moved on to Suede in Kimball Junction—therefore, most of the shows that would hold my attention have moved to Park City. Like, say, Devotchka last week.
Oh, Suede—if only I could hoist you up and transplant you to Salt Lake City. I have this condition, Chronic Wussinitis: It prevents me from driving up and down steep Park City canyons in not only warm friendly summer weather, but it flares up even more so on cold, unforgiving winter nights.
I’ve only been to Suede twice, and Park City a total of four times: Once which was forgettable, the other time which ended with someone’s vomit on my clothes, leaving me wishing it had been forgettable.
I arrived at Suede on a Tuesday night, Jan. 23, minus the black-ice highway incidents and Sundance congestion I’d been forewarned about. I camped out in one of the booths and noticed the club seems to have one too many serving areas set up for my lack of decision-making skills: Which bar do I pick? Which bar do I pick? But, the sound is good, the bartenders are quick and there’s room to roam without getting elbowed one too many times to put me over the edge.
Silent Sevens were the opening act, a band whom I can honestly say are not only my local favorites, but one of my all-time favorites, period. They’re more than just charismatically dreamy—as many times as I’ve heard them over the past few years, I find myself never being able to get their songs out of my head. In the good way, not the bad Alanis Morissette Is In My Head How Can I Stab It Out? way. If you don’t like this band, I suggest you lock yourself in a room with your new My Chemical Romance CD and mourn over the fact that you have no capacity for good taste. I always squeal like a little girl when I find out the Silent Sevens are playing.
Devotchka were next and, of course, were amazing. They have the musical power to captivate an audience from the first note; they’re energetic while projecting mournful sadness all at once. I always enjoy the show that unfolds before me. They sounded as good if not better than the dozens of times I’d seen them before, and I found myself nearly forgetting the bar tab that loomed before me.
You see, Park City is not within my price range of comfortable living or even a night out. I lose money, definitely, but with no prospects of actually winning any memories back. My tab was akin to a child-support payment. Thank God I’m not a male and thank God, again, I don’t have a child. Time to put off the gas bill and/or groceries.
For entertainment at its fullest, I’ll move some bills around. Now, who wants to be my chauffeur in the future so I can start seeing more shows at Suede?
