2008 Woodie Awards
Queens of the Stone Age is not an arena band.
This fact became much clearer to me after sweating, elbowing, screaming, and head-banging Monday night at the Queens concert here in Bakersfield.
I first saw the Queens two years ago at Allstate Arena in Chicagoland. The band played with Nine Inch Nails, and while the Queens show was great, it was obvious that NIN frontman Trent Reznor’s solo act was more suited to the mega-space.
The anonymity and disconnect of a big arena complement Reznor’s own slightly off-putting personality and angry electronica. You don’t want to talk to your fans, Trent? You’d rather we just look at the cool video screen or your muscled biceps? That’s just fine, we wouldn’t expect anything else.
Queens, on the other hand, has an appeal that has always been more raw energy and charisma than projection screens and props. Its kind of rock is meant to be intimate and skin-on-skin sweaty, and it comes across clearer when the audience has the chance to get close and really connect with the band.
That’s why Monday’s show was perfect. It was at The Bakersfield Dome, a middle-tier venue in town that also regularly hosts boxing — it’s the ideal mix of not-trying-too-hard trendy and redneck dirt.
The building is just what it sounds like — a round room covered with a dome — and its construction vaguely resembles a grain silo or a barn. There’s plenty of floor space, and the seats curve in a semi-circle around the stage, which is clearly visible from anywhere. The floor is dirty, sticky, and it reminded me of a wrestling mat. The building is old, it reeks of sweaty history, and you can barter with the bartender to get a $5 Budweiser for $4.
It’s just right for the Queens’ brand of muddy stoner-rock.
The opening band was Los Angeles-based duo The Gasoline Angels.
I listened to them on MySpace before the show, and I thought the Angels fairly mellow grunge sounded like a good match for the Queens. But in person, not so much. The group, which consists of brothers Karim and Kasey Chatila, played a short set, just 40 minutes, and I don’t think the crowd once felt tempted to dance. They were just…boring. That’s all. Two people on stage — one brother played drums and keyboards, the other sang and played a seriously lackluster guitar — is just not enough.
So when the Queens took over, fronted by the red-headed Josh Homme, fresh off a knee surgery and limping on stage using a cane, the crowd was more than ready. They opened with “Do it Again,” a track from their breakthrough 2002 album, Songs From the Deaf.
It’s one of the group’s trademark sex songs (there’s at least one on every album), and it was a brilliant choice. Those familiar with the group immediately recognized it, and for those who didn’t, the song features a “hey” chant that anyone can pick up in seconds.
“Do it Again” also set the overall tone for the concert — sex, baby, and we like it dirty and hazy. The Queens has always been a true rock band when it comes to the drugs. Homme admits to having battled an addiction to painkillers, and his early work practically sweats Vicodin and cocaine. And lately he’s been really pumping it up in the sex category, evidenced by the band’s choice of songs for the show. They broke out “Skin on Skin” from Lullabies to Paralyze (2005) and “Make It Wit Chu” from their new album, Era Vulgaris.
And as part of the encore, they banged out “Feel Good Hit of the Summer” from Rated R (2000), the song’s drug-chants interspersed with Homme whispering, “Dance like you f***,” and making, ahem, creative hand gestures.
Such interaction is only possible when you can actually see your audience. I was in the front, anchored to my savior, a big man in a yellow shirt, and I could practically feel Josh Homme’s eyes connecting with mine as he swung his hips and moaned the chorus to “Make it Wit Chu.” And the venue was so moderately sized that you could get the same jolting effect from anywhere on the floor — you wouldn’t necessarily need to be squished up against all those dripping bodies. Unless you wanted to, of course.
What’s really great is that the Queens actually look like a band that enjoys what its doing. The guys aren’t just out there to play the show and get back on the road (just ask me about the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ attitude in that area). Instead, they come back on stage to play for 20 more minutes when the audience is enthusiastic. They thank the crowd and make meaningless-but-loyalty-inducing small talk. For example, when the band came back on for an encore — they played for nearly two hours total — Homme accidentally strummed the wrong chord when transitioning from “Burn the Witch” to “Feel Good.” He joked about f-ing up, teased his bandmates, and explained why he was hobbling around with a cane. I could hear it all. I felt like I was in on a secret — along with every other perspiring body packed in the space.
Oh, and the music — it sounded great live. Better than on the album, especially the new tunes like “Battery Acid” and “Misfit Love.” Homme carried the show easily with his magnetic stage presence, and the rest of the band followed nicely. You couldn’t hear them missing bassist Nick Oliveri, the other original group member who Homme fired in 2004. Not even a little bit.
The band’s current tour is full of mid-level venues like the Dome. When Queens hits Cedar Rapids on Aug. 3, it’ll play not at the U.S. Cellular Center, but rather the Hawkeye Downs Fair Grounds. And the group recently announced additional tour dates that include several Montana locations. It appears the Queens has already figured out what I just realized: It isn’t an arena group. The band fits much better in a smaller, more intimate space where its enthusiasm can transfer to the fans.
“We always get to play L.A. and New York and Chicago and London…There are people (in smaller markets) that aren’t spoiled like the bigger audiences. We just want to play to people that are psyched,” guitarist Troy Van Leeuwen told the Montana newspaper Great Falls Tribune.
More power to ya, Queens. If I had my way, venues like the Dome, general admission floor tickets, and audience interaction would be a mandatory component of all rock shows.
I can’t believe it’s coming to an end. In two weeks, I’ll be back in Iowa, peeling myself off the furniture in my not air-conditioned apartment, complaining about the lack of beaches, Euro-trash clothing, and techno music.
I met with my “intercambio” conversation partner Ester for the last time today. It was really hard to say goodbye to her. Her English improved a lot in a few weeks, and my knowledge of Spanish swear words grew exponentially. What a great exchange.
What would it take to live here forever, exactly? I mean, besides a desire to live in paradise and eat paella for the rest of my life. Nearly every Spaniard I’ve met has told me the same thing, and they’re not kidding when they say San Sebastián is the most beautiful place in Spain.
I did a little research and asking around, and it turns out I’m living in one of the most expensive cities in Europe. I will naturally use that as an excuse for why my bank account has, well, depleted over the last three months. The residents of San Sebastián pay dearly for their gorgeous locale.
I asked Ester to explain the housing market to me, just to find out what living here would cost. Because San Sebastián is wedged between a set of mountains and an ocean, there’s not much room for development and growth. It’s pretty much only possible to build upwards and make the existing buildings taller.
It has been months since I’ve seen a normal house. One of my friends sent me an e-mail last week and mentioned he had to go mow the lawn. I’d forgotten lawns even existed, let alone that people had to mow them. There aren’t any houses or yards in San Sebastián. Everyone lives in apartments in the city.
Young people live with their parents until their late twenties or early thirties. They don’t pay rent, and they usually don’t work until after they graduate from college. One of my professors told me that most young people won’t have their first job until they graduate from college.
The apartments here aren’t exactly what you’d call big. They’re probably comparable to the average Iowa City apartment. I’m not sure who would kill who first, the parents or their kids. We’ve all seen Jack Black in Orange County. We know this kind of thing never ends well.
And this is all totally normal. If you have your own apartment before you’re 30, you are a complete phenomenon.
“Some people do. They must have rich parents or…” Ester trailed off, shaking her head. “I don’t know why anyone that age would have one.”
To rent a small apartment here costs €1,000, or about $1,333 per month. Almost everyone starts a career at €1000 ($1,333) a month. Food, clothing, furniture, taxes, entertainment, transportation, car payments — that’s all separate. If you’re married, you could scrape by with two incomes. A lot of couples choose to live with one another to save costs.
So let’s say you live with your parents until you’re 32, you get married, and you want to buy an apartment. You earn starting wages — the equivalent of $16,000 a year. Every square meter costs €6,000 ($8000). A normal apartment totals around €300,000, or $400,000.
That is one pricey little apartment. We’re talking about saving every penny you make for 25 years. And there’s no free parking.
Alas, my pint-sized dream of living here forever has been squashed. I will just have to save my money for some other preposterous fantasy.
Agur,
Ann
Though I’ve been in France for more than two months, Saturday morning was the first time I sported a beret.
Our final program excursions took place in the Pyrénées, out in the fresh mountain air; rafting, a visit to the beret museum, and hiking to a mountain lake filled up the weekend.
Though it rained all day and couldn’t have been warmer than 65 degrees Fahrenheit, Friday afternoon we drove to Oloron for a rafting trip.
Five life-vested thrill-seekers were pictured on the brochure of the rafting company, their raft crashing into white water spray. “We appreciate the soft murmur of the water,” it said.
However, as we were handed wet suits, life jackets, and helmets, I sensed that our float down the river would be calmer than the advertisement depicted. We pulled on the still-damp suits, zipped up, and climbed like cattle into the company vans that shuttled us to the river.
Our guide explained, in French, the rowing directions, “pagaye à gauche ou pagaye à droite,” as well as the safety precautions, “pose les pieds en avant.” We all jumped into the raft, secured our positions, and took off down the river under the soft, grey sky.
After a few mellow rapids, we arrived at a still spot in the river where a series of water battles took place. I watched as the others pushed one another into the frigid water, then without any warning, the guide turned and pushed me out of the raft. The plunge was shocking. The icy water enveloped my whole body and I came up laughing, the guide watched me with a knowing smile on his face.
Later, one raft attacked ours, pirate-like. Their guide jumped onto our boat and tossed people into the water one by one. We also jumped off a waterfall.
When the trip was over, we climbed out of the rafts and hauled them up a hill. Everyone shivered in the cool air and walked awkwardly on wet, numb feet. We emerged into a field bordered by mountain peaks and church steeples from a nearby village. The charcoal sky hung heavy over the flaxen field and we walked toward the bus, like penguins, in our wet suits. The scene was surreal. We changed into dry, warm clothes by the side of the bus as our program director passed around boxes of cookies. We bit into the buttery biscuits and climbed into our seats, cold but content.
Saturday morning we learned about the history, fabrication, and fashions of the beret. The Bearn beret, made famous by the Basque, was traditionally worn to shield one’s face from sun and rain. We were each given a beret and were taught how to wear them properly. The whole group boarded the bus, topped in red or black, like a circus of Picasso wanna-be’s.
They did, however, come in handy when we arrived at the spot of our afternoon randonnée. The air was sharp in the Parc National des Pyrénées. Everyone kept their felted French hats tugged tightly over their ears. We climbed boulders to the top of the mountain and walked to the edge of the green-blue Lac de Gaube.
Fog swept in over the lake quickly, then just as quickly disappeared. I sat on a rock as I took in the scene, reflecting over the past two months. One week of class to go before the whole summer ended. Strange. Everything was already winding down; the university cafeteria had closed, the streets felt sparser as locals left for the beach on vacation, and most students were comparing departure dates. Many times throughout the summer I dreamed of returning home, craving the comfort of familiar people and places. There were also points that felt like the summer was flying by and I feared the end approaching.
I didn’t say much on the lift down. We descended into dense, white fog and could only see the tips of trees as they passed. It had been a great weekend after a full, engaging summer. I was ready for the last week. Ready to take in as much as I could and then be ready to come home.
I curled up on the bus, wedged between the window and the upholstered seat, with my beret pulled snugly around my head.
Hey t***s.
I’m emotionally preparing myself to write this. I’ve got Carpenters music on and everything. Breathe. Out.
To understate the matter, I’ll be swallowing a tub of my pride in this entry. And maybe a scorpion too, since I feel this blog is like “Fear Factor.”
OK, consider this story the proper antithesis to my last entry when I met Tim Gunn and he offered me hot oral sex (through eye-blinks. I read you loud and clear, Tim). There’s much less overt flirtation in this story and many more… tears. From me. And from you too, if your soul works.
The day after the Tim Gunn event, I planned on jumping a bus to Malibu (go on, groan with me) to follow around gossip blogger Perez Hilton for an Advocate story. I’d pitched a story to my editors about Perez, and they were totally game. So I e-mailed him and eventually we started getting in touch via phone — pretty often. Let me tell you, contacting Perez alone made me pee my pants and the pants of those around me. My friends from home were also incontinent at the news. In fact, they freaked out so much that they nearly had something to do. Xoxo, the Midwest.
It’s weird that Perez is so popular (over 5,000,000 independent hits per day), yet he’s so accessible. Judging by how quickly he replied to my first e-mail, he may respond to EVERY e-mail he gets, which is a s**tload, especially since VH-1 just gave him his own show. I met him briefly in person at the Tim Gunn event, actually, and he was very nice, social, and orange-haired. He was also very much wearing a huge vest.
Sorry, Perez, but you’re a tackle-box short of being my uncle Gene (that’s my hottie roommate Elizabeth, btw).
So this publicist-guy Ben set up a great event for me to attend with Perez: a Tori Spelling-hosted BBQ. OK, I don’t know the first thing about Tori Spelling. She did “90210” and her late father owned houses made of like, chinchilla fur. That was all I had. But I was game to learn more, and if it meant a great article for the Advocate, I figured I could brave it.
I think it’s important for you to read the e-mail Ben sent me:
“Thanks for following up with me, I have four events this weekend and I’m going crazy.
The event starts at 1pm address is: (address).
No press so make sure you tell them you are friends with Perez and Ben Russo. I’ll be there. My cell is (#) the number to the house is (#).
THANKS! Ben”
I decided to ignore the “no press” thing. After all, if Ben was so Exclamation Point!-y about my attendance, I figured there was no problem. Ben also text-messaged me saying I needed to talk to “Lorena” once I arrived, too. Since I’m still scarred by the John Bobbitt story, I clenched my groin in fear.
The day of Tori’s party, I wore my most stylish beachfront BBQ outfit — which you know I bought at the mall. Just like Tori. I flagged down a bus on Santa Monica Boulevard that zipped me down to Santa Monica Beach (funny how that works). From there, I waited nearly an hour for the bus to Malibu, and I called Perez to tell him I’d arrive at Tori’s in under an hour.
Yeah, then I arrived at the BBQ. Where do I begin? I found the exact address, and the location looked nothing like a place of partying. It was a small (but lavishly furnished) beach house — and before I went in, I noticed a sign on the front gate. Something like: “If you enter the premises, you permit cameras to film you for televised broadcast,” etc.
Whatever, I’m hot, that’s fine. Turned out those cameras were for Tori Spelling’s reality show that I forgot existed. I apologize to all you “Tori & Dean: Inn Love” fans, I’m clearly not the pop culture fanatic I always dreamed I’d be. Anyway: I walk inside, and sure enough, an entire camera crew (complete with boom mics and lighting people) populate the place. No sign of Tori, however. Also, no sign of anyone who cares that I’ve just let myself in, including Perez.
I felt it was smartest — or at least not very stupid — to remain nonchalant, so I wandered out the back door to the deck, which was (of course) located in a beautiful spot on Malibu Beach. My initial question about this event: Is this really a party? The guests were hardly talking. In fact, they sprawled out on grotesquely expensive lounge furniture and kept to themselves. One chick was reading a book. This made me feel awkward, since we all know I have no tolerance for literature.
But wait, what’s that repetitive snapping sound? I turned around from my seat on the deck to find that, oh my God, paparazzi are stalking the place. I don’t know what they thought they were photographing, but I made myself believe it was me.
Yeah, then I looked back at the house and realized Tori Spelling was standing in the ground-floor window. I’m sorry, am I out of the loop, or am I wrong to think people don’t care about Tori Spelling? I didn’t understand the hubbub. I did understand, however, that my right side is hottest, so I posed appropriately.
Then I was just bored. Tori was inside playing dress-up for an US Weekly photo shoot, Perez was still nowhere to be found, and I was officially antsy. I scurried back inside hoping to find Ben or the people who knew I was coming.
“I’m supposed to find someone named Lorena?” I said to a random houseguest.
“Bobbitt?” they asked.
“Yes. Always,” I replied.
No one knew who Lorena was. No one. I was sent to Tori Spelling’s publicist, who had just finished telling Tori to put on the green dress for the In Touch photo shoot. Um, maybe you have to be evil to be a publicist, but this chick was straight-up Maleficent.
“What? No. No one else is invited here,” she said.
“Oh, I’m with Perez and Ben Russo,” I explained.
“Perez is a private guest and Ben isn’t here,” she spat at me.
“No, no, Ben set it up, he told me to talk to Lorena and, I guess, Megan Profit?”
“Lorena’s not here, and I’m Megan Profit. I don’t know anything about this.”
“Ben told me I could just follow around Perez, and that I could talk to Tori, too.”
“No, we’ve granted exclusive coverage to other magazines.”
I tried explaining that I wasn’t even covering the event — I was covering Perez’s interaction with celebrities. Tori was supposed to be his celebrity confidant who gives cute quotes about him in my article. I forgot to even wonder why Ben said this Megan would know who I was even though she didn’t.
“Well, you need to get Ben on the phone,” she told me.
“Absolutely,” I replied, smiling, dying inside.
Ben wouldn’t pick up the phone, so I texted him. I’ll be damned, he replied instantly. I’m telling you, text-messaging is the language of Hollywood.
Unfortunately, Tori’s publicist decided she needed to talk to Ben herself. I couldn’t hear much since she wandered out the front door with her cell phone, but I did hear, “No, Ben, you knew this was a private party!” S**t.
Then she stormed back inside, scoffed at me, and said, “No. Sorry. If we’d set this up beforehand, I’d have no problem with it. But we have deals with other people. Sorry. I know you drove out here.”
I took one last look across the kitchen at Tori Spelling, who was eating a giant piece of pizza for an awaiting camera crew. She seemed like she’d be funny. What can I say? I left. I sobbed.
I don’t know if I just messed up by announcing my presence at the party or if Ben messed up because the people he said would know me definitely didn’t, but the whole series of events became a fiasco. Worst of all: I hate being talked to like I’m a delinquent. Maybe I’m ruining my chance of ever appearing on a “Beverly Hills 90210″ reunion special here, but that chick was asinine to me. Oh well. By the way, Perez never showed up.
My editors at the Advocate thought my experience was hilarious, and they forgave me. Because the gays always do. Actually, that’s not true. Forget I said that.
Tune in next week when fellow Iowan (and, sigh, I guess my best friend) Jessica Heacock visits Cali. With no Jimmy John’s in California, will we go hungry? My cliffhangers kick ass, guys, admit it.
Big love, xoxo.
Louis
Speaking or singing, Austin-based musician Dale Watson’s smooth baritone sounds like that of a prophet — and this prophet is saying that country music is a sham.
“As far as what country music used to be, that word is dead,” Watson told me. “They’ve succeeded in strangling it. It’s the snake that finally ate its entire body.”
Watson has long been known as a country singer who would have been better off being born a generation earlier, say, the ’60s, when legends like Buck Owens and Merle Haggard first graced the stage.
But Watson debuted in 1995, the heyday of Nashville darlings like Garth Brooks and Shania Twain.
He wants nothing to do with them and their so-called country.
“So many people say, ‘Oh yeah, I grew up on (Merle) Haggard and (George) Jones,’ but you listen to their music and you can’t hear any of that,” Watson drawled. “That’s what my main problem is. People that don’t care about the roots of country music… Country music used to embrace its past, the people that built the house, and now they just discard them like trash. They don’t try to learn from them.”
To distance himself from that type of country, Watson has created his own genre called “Ameripolitan,” which he defines as “original music with prominent roots influence.”
“I like to think that Ameripolitan is what our country music would have been, where it would have went if it hadn’t have been polluted by the rock world,” Watson said.
I spoke to Watson a couple days ago in advance of his visit to Bakersfield, and the artist told me he will be coming to the Midwest in the fall. If you have a chance, hit up a show. Watson has a reputation for unpredictable on-stage antics, and his new album, From the Cradle to the Grave, showcases Watson’s soulful voice brilliantly.
The first single from the album, “Justice for All,” which you can hear at www.myspace.com/dalewatson, tells the tale of a father’s struggle between forgiveness and the desire for revenge against the man who murdered his daughter.
“An eye for an eye would leave the whole world blind, forgiveness is the way, but I can’t forgive his crime, and if I had the chance in truth I’d have to say, I’d gun that bastard down with a smile on my face,” Watson rumbles.
Both the song’s focus, which Watson said is more of a social commentary than he usually writes, and its style bring to mind another man in black — Johnny Cash.
In fact, the entire album was recorded in a cabin that once belonged to Cash. It is now owned by “Jackass” star Johnny Knoxville, a close friend of Watson’s.
The album’s path seems almost pre-ordained. When Watson found out the cabin had no recording equipment, friends provided it. Watson didn’t think he would be making a salable album, but his new label, Hyena Records, stood by the material. And though Watson at first tried to avoid the Cash connection, he gave in, and the writing and recording took just five days.
“There was just no denying it, especially when I was writing the songs,” Watson said. “I don’t want people thinking I’m trying to imitate or copy, but there was no denying that writing style, and when we recorded it, it just came out that way.”
Watson said that once he finishes up this tour, he will return to Austin and begin work on another album that pays tribute to some musical greats. Working with steel guitarist Lloyd Green
and the Nashville Cats, a group that was popular in the ’60s, he will record new songs he has written and re-record some favorites.
“Nashville seems to think they’re washed up, but these guys are great,” he said. “Just because they’re older in years doesn’t mean they can’t still play.”
— Maggie
Daily Iowan reporters and editors write beyond the print edition.
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