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?
Kiss My Xmas
March 27, 2008
By Dominique LaJeunesse
Posted 12/14/2006
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I can, however, listen to other genres whenever I feel like it. Music, for me, is not season-specific, and if I get a hankering, I don’t want my friends to lock me up because of the sudden urge to hear “Have a Holly Jolly Christmas” in the depths of summertime.
Not only that, but Christmas music conjures up memories of second grade and trying to learn three notes on the dreaded recorder in hopes that my parents would think I was the Highlander of the impossible instruments. The recorder sounds like several crickets being violently interrogated. I challenge anyone to make that instrument sound good—I may buy you breakfast.
So, could Kurt Bestor oh-holy-night his way into my heart with his Christmas concert at Abravanel Hall last week? I knew only a little about the man; he’s been playing around here for at least 20 years, doing TV themes, movie scores and various other composition work in his nonholiday downtime. Every December, he stages A Kurt Bestor Christmas. Popular with the LDS crowd (even though he’s lapsed himself), Bestor busts out the Christmas tunes so that we may jumpstart the spirit. He has the charisma and charm to play to the family-friendliness of LDS culture. When in Utah …
Speaking of Utahness: I was 20 minutes late arriving to Abravanel Hall. I breathed a sigh of relief when I heard some robotic Christmas music that sounded like what we’ll be listening to in our flying cars in 2025. I thought, “Whew, haven’t missed anything; this is just some awful pre-show music.” Whoops, it actually was the show.
I struggled to get seated, crushing half-a-dozen punctual souls in the process. I’d been expecting lots of cheesy caroling and Christmas shtick but was pleasantly surprised to see an orchestra in the back and some acclaimed backup band members.
No singing, just instrumental music. That, I could handle. My ADD mind was comforted by the fact that after each Christmas song, Bestor would stand up and explain the era that the song originated from and the background behind the writing. Like the History Channel, but I got to leave the house!
He picked a random audience member to read “’Twas the Night Before Christmas,” which is a story I hold close due to family tradition. It just so happened to be that the gentleman he’d chosen had injured himself, was on crutches and had to hobble onstage. It also just so happened that his name was Tim. Thus ensued the Tiny Tim jokes. He did an animated job of reading it, though, and was nicely accompanied by the band jumping in with songs to match parts of the story, making for one of my favorite parts of the show.
Then Bestor introduced a special guest: None other than Debbie Gibson (though I think she prefers Deborah now). Gibson was great. She had the voice and energy to nearly rival Xtina Aguilera. She almost made me come to the dark side of Christmas songs.
But I was more into the instrumental side of the show—Bestor can play the piano, no denying that—but the songs with vocals? Not so much my thing. His man on the wind instruments—I’ll be damned!—actually made a recorder sound great; I’ll bet he was the prodigy of the second-grade Christmas pageant. I owe him breakfast.
Bestor himself emanated ego throughout the show, and I think some leaked onto me—pardon if I’m a bit inflated for the next 7 to 10 days. Still, A Kurt Bestor Christmas (hmm, maybe the title should have been a clue) was definitely innocuous entertainment for a night out with the family. You know … if you’re into that sort of thing.
Westward Ho
March 27, 2008
All of these can be found at slweekly.com, a fun little paper we have out here in good ol’ Utah. You just have to search under my last name, which has been spelled many different ways over the years. I am like Prince, but not as tiny and cool.
By Dominique LaJeunesse
Posted 11/30/2006
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My slot finger was itchy, full of the anticipation that comes before losing copious amounts of money—something I’m damned good at. My parents always said, “Las Vegas doesn’t look that way because everyone is winning.” Wise words, but the rationalizer in me thought: Wendover is smaller than Vegas, so there’s bound to be more to gain.
After a westward hour-and-a-half drive of saltwater and dirt scenery, I checked into the Montego Bay Resort. I entered my room and was greeted by a television the size of King Kong … begging to be turned on. No time for that, though: My reason for being here, aside from gambling, was to check out the new Montego-adjacent Peppermill Concert Hall, tonight headlined by the Smothers Brothers.
This $19 million luxury monster opened in July; it holds up to 1,000 people with movie theater-style seating. Unlike your favorite dollar theater, the seats aren’t sticky and there are cup holders attached to your seat. No more worries of knocking over your neighbor’s drink in a fit of rocking out too hard.
For an average ticket price of about $20, you can see acts like REO Speedwagon, Foreigner, Neil Sedaka, ZZ Top (all coming soon; schedule at WendoverFun.com) and, of course, the Smothers Brothers. That’s cheap—sans travel gas—considering most concerts in Utah are starting to inflate in price—and here I don’t have the option of going out afterward and blowing all my money on gambling.
The most I knew about the Smothers Brothers was that they were a sibling comedy duo (hence Brothers) with the last name Smothers (hence Smothers) who started their career spoofing folk songs in the late ’50s. They’ve toured consistently for a staggering 48 years, I learned later that night. I also noticed that the closest person to my age in the room was about 20 years older. Holy generation gap—was I going to “get” this?
With what comedy has become today, it’s difficult to find a balance between filthy humor for shock laughter and benign sitcom canned laughter. Tom and Dick managed to make crass jokes without even seeming like they were—whatever happened to subtlety, anyway?
I had no idea that they’re also quite political, but not pushy or angry about it. They launched into a song in a foreign language; Tom intentionally threw it off, Dick asked why he was ruining the song. Tom said that Dick Cheney called him and told him he had to trash it because it was a different language, which could mean there were terrorist threats in it, so that he was saving America.
This pseudo-political discourse went back and forth for about five minutes; the older crowd seemed uneasy, but my friend and I were laughing hysterically. The material didn’t seem dated, and had a mischievous innocence about it. Later in the show, a video montage made things clearer: The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour was cancelled in the ’60s because, then, they were too edgy and political for prime time. Today, well, they’ve still got it.
Now for my own montage—of gambling: Blackjack. Lose. Slot machine. Nearly calling gambling hotline. Then winning $400 on slot machine. Realizing the magnificence of making 1,500 quarters out of 20. Not knowing how to work a cell-phone calculator. Craps table calling. Quadrupling our bets. Blackjack again. Craps again.
Oh, and bring comfortable footwear: Security frowns on sliding your shoes off for five minutes when they start digging into your flesh. I received a stern talking to. Quickly oblige—they don’t like sass and will stand there, staring with fierce intensity, until those heels are back in place. What happens in Wendover stays on your feet, apparently.
Bed and TV by 4:30 a.m. Thank you, Peppermill! Good night! I’ll be back for Foreigner.
Full Metal Racket
March 27, 2008
All of these can be found at slweekly.com, a fun little paper we have out here in good ol’ Utah. You just have to search under my last name, which has been spelled many different ways over the years. I am like Prince, but not as tiny and cool.
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Full Metal Racket
Headbanging and bowl-hugging at the Gigantour.
By Dominique LaJeunesse
Posted 09/21/2006
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So last week’s Gigantour was to be my grand awakening into the world of all things Metal.
The weather had won, pouring down cold sheets of rain on Friday, Sept. 15, so the multiband fest was moved from its original outdoor location at the Usana Amphitheater indoors to the E Center. Hey, still West Valley City; still metal.
Once I arrived inside, my initial impression after looking at a Rocker Dude—who had quite possibly gotten in a fight not 20 minutes earlier—and hearing people hurling insults at security, was that I’d stepped right into an episode of Cops. With a lot more hair. So much hair.
The first band I witnessed was Sweden’s Arch Enemy. They had a female singer who walked like a man and sang like the spawn of demons. But then in a sweet, chirpy voice that could bake cookies, between songs would say, “Hey, thanks for coming out!” I liked them, mostly for the fact that they had a hot woman in the band, and that could she only be from Viking country to make that kind of noise.
Shortly (Minutes! Impressive) after Arch Enemy came Opeth, the only band of the night I was actually familiar with. They did some of their shredder songs but then announced they had to play a slow ballad to ensure they were getting laid that night. These were the songs I actually enjoyed the most—even more so watching the kids in the mosh pit circling each other like vultures, waiting for it to pick up. Which for the next seven to eight minutes of the song, it didn’t. Trying to show off my vast Opeth knowledge, I turned to my friend and said, “Are these guys from Australia?” Which resulted in gales of laughter followed by, “Close, very close. They’re from Sweden.”
While waiting on Lamb of God (not Swedish, but Virginian), it became apparent that they were to be the Main Attraction. I heard several people around me saying how bored they were with the other bands and that they were only there for Lamb of God. My curiosity was piqued.
Once Lamb of God took the stage, it was a cue for every male at the concert to either hit something, take their shirts off, or both. I really did try to give the band a chance, but it was so much Pantera-meets-the-testosterone-that-only-puberty-stricken-boys-could-love. It also seemed as though the singer knew only four words of the English language: Salt! Lake! City! and F—k! Not only that, he could only use them in the most metal of voices, which completely diminished my capacity to take them seriously. I giggled throughout Lamb of God’s entire set while everyone around me rocked so hard that I just knew their necks would be sore the next day.
A stomach full of food, beer and metal led to my unfortunate bout with the hiccups, right about the time that Megadeth was slated to rock. My most non-metal moment of the night (or most metal, depending on whom you ask) was spent doubled-over in the bathroom of the E Center throwing up my dinner for about the first 20 minutes of Megadeth. Not wanting to miss them entirely, I finally made my way out to the floor again and caught some pyrotechnics to rival Great White … never mind, bad form.
Still feeling the wrath of my never-ending rock hiccups, we decided it was time to bail out on the show a bit early—if only to fit in with the other fleeing headbangers who’d just come for Lamb of God.
I’m thinking about getting a metal stomach. It’ll be a risky operation but worth it.
SLC Crunk
March 27, 2008
All of these can be found at slweekly.com, a fun little paper we have out here in good ol’ Utah. You just have to search under my last name, which has been spelled many different ways over the years. I am like Prince, but not as tiny and cool.
By Dominique LaJeunesse
Posted 08/03/2006
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Since the CD player crapped out in my car, I’ve since been forced to listen to the radio. Station-flipping has become inevitable during my morning commute, due to the barrage of commercials, obnoxious DJs and (shudder) Republican talk radio that I don’t wish to endure.
As such, U92 has become a guilty pleasure—they play uninterrupted and entertaining sets of hip-hop in the morning. But, one drawback is that every song I hear goes as follows: “You look so _____ fine I want to bend your _____ over and _____ your _____ all night long _____ while I smoke _____ and smack that _____, and bring ya friends.”
I’ve made each song into a mental Mad Lib, inserting my own nouns, adjectives and adverbs into the FCC-mandated blanks. Really, though, what the _____ are they saying? I had the _____ing opportunity to find out last week at the U92 Summer Jam.
I rolled up to the Utah State Fairpark last Friday afternoon in my pimped-out Nissan. (When I purchased it, I added a steering wheel cover.) Parking in new territory is not something I’m adroit at. I turn into a complete dumb_____. So I, of course, almost drive straight into the exit. At the Fairpark there is apparently no room for error, evidenced by a very unforgiving parking lot attendant screaming maniacally at me. He didn’t need to be such a _____sucker about it.
Once inside, my first goal was to decipher where my generously provided U92 VIP passes would get me. This was harder than figuring out the da Vinci code. Each frowning, hulking security guard eyed me as a suspect. At one point when I queried, “Where can I go with these passes?” I received, “Where are you trying to go with them?” Trick question. I don’t know, wherever I can, _____ it!
Now I know why I don’t ask people questions. After searching the grounds, I found the U92 tent where I could go in to relax in the hot as _____104-degree weather.
During all of this meandering, I had missed one act and was waiting on the next. Probably because it wasn’t hot enough out herrre, there was about a 20-minute gap between sets. I did find it pretty _____ droll that the crowd, rather than screaming for the next act, chanted “Water! Water!”
Nicole finally slinked onstage and went into a typical R&B-honey set. Each was song prefaced with “Any you got a man? Where my peeps? Ladies?” And so on. And so forth.
Play-N-Skillz were due next. During the downtime, I looked for a booth selling grills for my teeth. I saw the cars of Car Wars, booths for rims, booths with panties—but much to my chagrin, no grill booth.
Play-N-Skillz pounced onto the stage, and immediately men were transformed into “Fellas” and ladies were “Mother_____ ing ’Hos.” PNS made it abundantly clear that they wanted one or all of the ’hos to come home with them, followed by the distinct shrieking of 14-year-old girls. Hopefully, parents were there to sign the _____ sleepover consent forms.
Though I missed the highly anticipated Bow Wow and Ice Cube due to the exorbitant promotional breaks (and bouts of heat exhaustion), I did get to see Obie Trice. He went into a long explanation on how Utah girls have the wettest _____. He asked if we liked to smoke _____ and _____ ’hos and the youthful crowd replied “ _____ yes!”
Trice’s set, which was great, left me feeling less malcontent than when I initially arrived, due to that series of mother_____ing unfortunate events that unfolded from the start. Summer Jam was good for the kids, but it really wasn’t my flavor. Crunk, 40s, _____ & ’hos, bling, cars, booties, _____ing and licking via my car radio is probably all the hip-hop entertainment I’ll ever need.
I could still use a nice set of grills, though.
