Friday, June 29, 2007

Arctic Monkeys concert 5/13/07

Mike Tyson Doesn't Give Rematches - An Arctic Monkeys Concert Review

You go to a concert and what do you want? Do you want music? I said DO YOU WANT MUSIC? How about 20 songs in 65 minutes. Sound good? You want pile driver music, hammered into your core, not your eardrums? A blissful sonic attack that could be the soundtrack to Fallujah, rat-a-tat-tat-tat boom-boom-boom? But happy. With almost a smile built in to every song. I'm not talking primal screaming nonsense Yoko, nor am I talking showoff guitar leads, Eddie. I'm talking love songs, drinking songs, fighting songs, songs about meeting strange fans, songs about dancing, songs about what the bird you picked up last night looks like in the morning. You got a problem with that? Well stop making the eyes at me and I'll stop making the eyes at you.

You want guitars? You want bass? You want drums? It's rock and roll, of course you want it. Go to Wikipedia you fucking wankers and look up Rhythm Section. Find out what a Bass and Drum combo should sound like, how upfront that sound should be. Look up the definition of Rock and Roll son, see what you been missing with this rap shit, Emo this and that, Fergilicious my ass.

Bass. Drums. Guitar. Another Guitar. And hooks, man, can't forget the hooks. More hooks than you'll find in your grandpa's tackle box. And lyrics. Mouthfuls of lyrics. Lyrics sung fast with big words crammed in, rendering them drunken karaoke-proof.

And did I mention it's not all rat-a-tat-tat? There's actually what some would call ballads, but don't call them that in my presence or I'll sick one of the bouncers on you, not the one that's all right, the other one, the scary one, the one where it's his way or no way, totalitarian he is, that scumbag. Call them slower songs, with key changes, and guitar parts that speed up and then slow down again. And the hooks, oh the hooks are still there, they're always there.

Rock and roll saviors? You bet your arse, just don't get religious on me man, I don't want your prayers, save that for the morning after. Just give me music, lots of songs, no solos, no stage patter, fucking can't understand what they're saying anyway, just music, song after song after song after song times 20.

You want music? I said DO YOU WANT MUSIC? Fine, here's the music, done. Goodbye. That's it, no more left. Done. You don't like it, you want more? Tough shat, go out and buy the record. You better buy it anyway before me and the lads get a couple of cans in us and take a few pool cues to your sorry ass.

When it's over, it's over. Let me describe it to you this way: About 15 years ago I once achieved the Vegas miracle of pulling one of the strippers out of the Olympic Garden and bringing her back to my hotel room. Don't ask me how, just put it this way, combine the right amount of 7&7's with Mars in retrograde and I can talk the Koran out of Osama's hand.

So I'm mucking it up with the broad, not even a broad, a young college age girl paying for books, tuition and whatever by lap dancing around Vegas. Said she was a Chemistry major, what the hell do I know, I asked her what NaCl was and she said salt so I believed her. Should have hit her with TnT for confirmation but really what did I care, she was meeting me outside in her car in 10 minutes. And she did and so we were off, making out at every stop light, even got her to play a little bit with herself at one of the longer lights. I licked her finger when the light turned green, didn't taste like chicken.

So we get back to the hotel, mucking it up a little when she either sobers up or tires out, couldn't tell you which. Low level karate match breaks out, with her perfectly countering my best wax on/wax off moves. No more making out, no more sticky fingers, nothing, just goes Derek Bell on me, operation shutdown.

"Let's just talk" she says as we lay underneath the sheets. Okaaaaay.... Blah blah blah... enough small talk, I think it's time to go. But now all she wants to do is sleep. Uh, sorry not interested, might as well be gambling downstairs with my boys. "Please just let me sleep."

Uh, no, not really interested in you sleeping in my bed, if I ain't getting any when you're tipsy I doubt I'm getting any in the light of day when my 7&7 induced, A+ personality is gone so let's go. I'm gonna hit the head, then we are going downstairs and you can head home if you want. Piss, flush, wash, back to bedroom. C'mon let's go.

"Come back to bed, let's sleep." Uh, nope, time to go. "C'mon, I really like you, come back to bed, just let me rest a little and then I'll be into it."

Now comes decision time, every guy knows this is 99.999% bs, but every guy also knows that leaves 1 chance in 100,000 that it's not. So you're telling me there's a chance!!!

Did I mention my buddy is in the room also, with her stripper friend that I'm also taking credit for dragging out of there, or was taking credit for until she went cold on him too? So not only do I have to decide if I want to give it one more try, but I have to decide how this is going to look to my buddy. He wants to get going as he has gotten even less than me. He's highly skeptical of the whole thing and knows the odds are 99999 to 1 against. What to do, what to do....

"Come back to bed, just let me sleep" Decision time....

"Sorry" I say, "Mike Tyson doesn't give rematches" whereby I grab her by the ankles and pull her slowly off the bed, except this lithe little stripper probably only weighs 95 lbs and she comes flying off the bed, BANG!!, on the floor, head hitting with a good thump, ouch!! Tough shit, I guess, no blood no foul. Just like no sex, no sleep.

Off we go to gamble downstairs, and more importantly to get rid of these broads. That of course is another long story for another time. Which brings me to why I brought this up. It's been my way of saying:

Mike Tyson doesn't give rematches, and the Arctic Monkeys don't give encores.

(reposted from a month ago as for some reason a bunch of posts got deleted. I f'd up somehow I guess, oh well)