Last Night: Black Lips at the Great American
Black Lips
October 7, 2008
Great American Music Hall
Words and photos by Jennifer Maerz
Better than: Watching your neighbor spit loogies in the air and catch them in his mouth (a skill guitarist Cole Alexander has mastered).
The Black Lips really have changed. Used to be that Cole Alexander could puke on whatever photographer he wanted (including my good friend Kelly O. up in Seattle, while she was videotaping the band) and no one would complain.
These days you have to sign a puke waver to shoot a Black Lips show. As the band's friendly manager explained to me before I went inside, it's so you won't sue the band if Cole's "acid reflux" acts up all over your Canon. ('Cause that happened somewhere recently and the vomitee had the gall to sue.)
And used to be it was cheap to get into a Black Lips gig. One dude behind me in line scoffed at the price last night. "Seventeen dollars?" he asked his friend. "Man, I remember when it was $12."
But for everything that changes, there's a lot about this Atlanta band that stays the same. Namely that no matter how tired, jaded, grumpy, over it, or clueless you may be in their presence, these dudes will pull you into their excitement. The Black Lips play every performance with the energy of a brand new band doing its first house show in your basement. Meaning they're sweaty by the second song, climbing the railing by the third, and getting the crowd riled into a gym shorts-scented pit in the time it takes lesser bands to tune a guitar.
Last night's Great American show was a lot of fun. It was a lot of kids jumping around, singing along, jumping on stage, getting escorted out for jumping on stage, shrieking, and generally showing their appreciation for this awesome quartet with every physical gesture possible (including, unfortunately for bassist Jared Swilley, throwing cups of beer on the band).
And the band, for as much of a party as they like to inspire, still sound tight live, the product of spending so much time over the last couple years on the road. Even the new songs -- one tentatively called "Drugs" (go figure) another one sounding catchy as all hell, (like Weezer gone punk) -- were really well received. The band recently wrapped another album of 13th Floor Elevators madness meets snotty punk rock, and that spectrum allows for a lot of ya yas gettin' out (as well as a trippy '60s light show) when it hits the stage.
As for the crowd, the kids were young -- so young I saw a couple of them get kicked out before the Black Lips even started for some sorta booze infraction, while the girl next to me must've been on her second cigarette ever, her puffs were so nervous and rapid. But with that youth came enthusiasm -- for the band, and for the pit that started, which was thankfully pretty free from drunken assholes as these fans were just working out their fandom without too many elbows into their neighbors' lovehandles.
The Great American was less than half full (two nights headlining was probably a bit too ambitious) but those who showed up and paid the 17 bucks were shown a crazy good time. Thankfully for my shitty little PowerShot camera, the only thing that flowed from Cole's mouth was spit -- which landed mostly on his gigantic pilgrim hat or his white poncho, far away from me and the front row of brave young fans.
For extra action: Check out the "News on Booze" interview with the Black Lips in Seattle -- which includes Cole puking on my good pal Kelly O.
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