Mac and Cheese

On the day of a concert, I usually get pretty excited about the night's show. Sometimes, I play the artist's CDs all day and guess which songs will make the setlist. Once in a while, I'll go online to search for discussion sites to gain current information on the band. But for Fleetwood Mac's Fresno performance on June 24, 2004, I decided to just go to the concert with no preparation at all.

I shouldn't say no preparation; I have a ritual before I leave the house to get to a show. A mental checklist of sorts that I run down in order to assure myself that I have everything necessary for the night:

Cash...Check.

Wife's I.D....Check (She hates to carry a purse into concerts)

Earplugs...Check

Tickets...Check (And re-check about 12 times before getting into the car)

What was missing from my list for the Fleetwood Mac show was something to read during the irksome demonstration of excess I endured. Hell, half-way through this thing, I would have done backflips to even have Watchtower pamphlets to leaf through. I had a better time watching a Mexican soap opera on a T.V. with snowy reception while in line at the DMV than I did at the Save Mart Center that night.

I never was a huge fan of Fleetwood Mac, but I always enjoyed their music when I heard it, whether it be on the radio, on MTV, or even on Muzak systems in shopping malls or grocery stores. I have two pleasant memories of Fleetwood Mac's music; one hearing the song Rhiannon on my mail-order wristwatch radio when I used to wear it to bed and play at a low volume so as not to tip off Mom and Dad. The other being the time I was buying my first pair of Levis Shrink-to-Fit Buttonfly 501 jeans at Miller's Outpost getting ready for another school year and the video for the early '80s tune Hold Me was playing on the television monitors throughout the store. Aside from the senses of taste and smell, music may be the strongest source of conjuring up memories long forgotten. When I hear Rhiannon played, even on a state-of-the-art sound system, I hear it through a cheap, tinny AM radio with the sound muffled by a pillow.

When the Fleetwood Mac concert was announced, my wife Mary expressed interest. I saw no problem going to the show except that it was a Thursday night and we'd have to get up early for work the next day. But we could go to work a little tired the next day if it meant going to a good show. In the days before the tickets went on sale, we had mentioned to friends that we were going to go to see Fleetwood Mac. Two couples thought that they'd like to go with us.

With the current state of most concerts consisting of reserved seating, this can pose a slight problem. In the old days of general admission shows, any of your friends that were going bought their own tickets and you'd all meet up before the show, go into the venue together and find seats together. Now, if you want to sit with a large party, you all have to buy tickets together. One person has to purchase the tickets and get reimbursed later by the others. Most of the time this works itself out, but it can get complicated, kind of like figuring out the bill at a restaurant with a party of nine and everybody has 20 dollar bills.

We were going to see the show with one of Mary's oldest friends, Dawn, and her boyfriend Mike. The other couple was Mary's ex-boss Kevin and his wife Marla. I really didn't feel like buying the tickets this time around with the prospect of having to buy six, especially upon hearing the price tiers. The top ticket was $123.50 and the low was around $55.00. I wasn't sure what the others had in mind, but I was shooting for the middle tier tickets priced around 80 bucks. That still seemed a little high to me, but I didn't want to sit up in the nosebleeds like I did for the Metallica show (Archives, March 04) and run the risk of more vertigo. Luckily, Marla volunteered to buy the tickets for the group.

Marla did us all a favor by agreeing to take care of the ticket buying, so I couldn't hold it against her when she bought the $123.50 tickets. Apparently, any other seat would have been really far away and I saw her point to pay the difference to enjoy the show. I can rationalize almost any cost for a concert because its really the only expense of our entertainment dollar. We don't go to movies often or eat at restaurants much, so its either live music or minor league baseball most of the time. But still, with all the service charges tacked on, we were looking at about 3 bills to get into the show and that was a little more difficult to justify.

On the day of the show, I was lucky that the regular Thursday afternoon meeting at work was cancelled. This meant I could get home and take a nap before the show. (For the record: I never, ever thought I'd reach an age where I'd need a frickin' nap to enjoy a concert. "Hope I Die Before I Get Old", indeed). Later, the six of us met at a great Chinese place for dinner around 6pm. As I've mentioned in earlier tales, I like to get to the venue early, if for no reason but to people-watch. The restaurant was really close to the arena, so I wasn't getting too panicky, but it was getting close to 7:30 by the time we left for the show. We parked in the first lot we saw to save time and made tracks to the doors.

Upon arriving at the door, we noticed that there was virtually no line to get in, but a huge one that lead to a table under a tent. I initially thought this was a makeshift willcall and started towards the doors. Then I heard a security guard bellow something about the line was for an I.D. check station. I like the idea behind I.D. stations; you get checked once and receive a handstamp or bracelet (this time it was a bracelet). This saves a lot of time at the concession stands because you're not fishing for an I.D. and money at the same time. You can just flash the stamp or bracelet and be on your way.

We almost got in line outside with the others, but the bellowing man said there were also stations inside. At this late time, I wanted to at least be inside the building in case the show started. It was about 7:45 and the showtime was stated to be 8:00pm. So we got our tickets scanned (tickets are rarely torn these days) and looked for a station line. Kevin and Marla went to look at the merchandise tables, Dawn and Mike decided to head to the seats while Mary and I got in line for the Beer Jewelry.

The line moved pretty slow and I was getting a little edgy about finding our seats before the lights went down. I hate trying to find seats in the dark with the sound blaring. Too much confusion and the looming possibility for tempers to flare. So as a diversion, I spent my time looking around at the concert goers to amuse myself. The crowd was mostly older, the majority of them over 40. I didn't get advance notice, but apparently the dress code of the night for men called for khaki shorts with brown leather belt, sandals, Hawaiian shirt and lots of gold jewelry. I'm surprised they let me in; I had shoes with laces.

Women skewed slightly on the younger side, but many losing the fight with Mother Nature and Father Time. Bless their hearts, they put on their tightest jeans and skimpiest tops and shook it all night long. One such cutie approached Mary and I in the Beer Jewelry line.

"Can I cut?", she asked, smiling in an attempt to look adorably innocent. She was also smashed.

"Wha--", I replied.

She repeated, "Can I cut? Can I get in line ahead of you?" We were at the envious spot two people back from the head of the line. She was pointing at the spot in front of Mary.

Mary and I looked at each other, both of us a little stunned. It took me a beat to find the words for my answer. "Well, I don't think so. You see, we had to wait in line, so I don't see why---"

"No", Mary blurted, staring right into the lady's face.

"Yeah, no", I said, getting Mary's back.

"Really, why?", she asked. This time she was making that childish "please" expression by raising her eyebrows and smiling sheepishly.

I was still a little taken aback by her brash request. I told her, "Y'know what? Ask those people", thumbing towards the people behind us. "You can cut, but not in front of us"

"No", Mary said. "She shouldn't cut anywhere" Mary gets a little pushed out of shape when people don't play by the rules. She would have made a great cop. But by this time, the drunk gal had already asked the people behind us if she could cut and they, in their own inebriated state, happily agreed.

We got our bracelets and walked away towards the nearest concession stand. I really only wanted one beer to sip on during the show and this started to become a little bit of a hassle. The advanced age of the average concert goer did not translate into responsibility because there were many very drunk people around. These middle aged folks know how to party. Or maybe they don't and that was the problem. They finally got out of the house and like a dog off the leash, just started going for it.

We got up to the counter and ordered two beers. Then, like in Seattle earlier in the month, we were asked to show our I.D.s again. I politely asked what was the point of an I.D. station if I still had to show my card at the stand. The cashier shrugged and held up his hands. We showed the guy our I.D.s.

"Now, what was it you wanted?", he asked.

What was it I wanted? You moron, you asked me to show you my I.D. because I wanted to purchase beer! Or are you only selling hot dogs to the over 21 crowd these days? Oh! I know, maybe you forgot what I wanted. I realize it was way back there about 16 seconds ago that I first ordered those drinks, so I could see how it could slip your mind.

I wanted to say that, but instead I sighed and reordered the beers. We met up with Kevin and Marla to make our way to the seats. I wanted to hit the head before sitting for 2 hours so we ducked into the restrooms. In the men's room, it was like a junior high locker room; these 40-somethings were throwing paper towels around, goosing each other at the urinals, and generally making idiots of themselves. All the giggling and high-fiving just make it that much more annoying.

We sat down in our row where Mike and Dawn waited. The place was about two-thirds full. Mary tapped me on the shoulder to show me that there were two drum sets onstage. I wasn't too surprised to see that; Mick Fleetwood was turning 62 that night and if he needed a little help, that was okay by me. If I can even hear drums by the time I'm 62, I'll be happy.

The lights went down and the perfunctory cheers went up. It took me a moment to get my bearings and take in the full stage setup, specifically looking for the 2nd drummer. It turned out that it was a percussionist playing congas, cymbals, chimes, etc. The core of Fleetwood Mac was there; Stevie Nicks, Lindsey Buckingham, John McVie, a keyboard player in the place of Christine McVie and of course, Mick Fleetwood. But upon further inspection, it appeared that many others were onstage as well. I spied the percussionist, two rhythm guitarists, and two back up singers. Ten people on the stage playing music it originally took five to perform. During the second song, Mary pointed out that another drummer had taken a spot behind Mick's kit. That made eleven! This drummer was playing a strange, stripped down drum set and really only hit certain drums during key strikes. He wasn't lighted by any of the stage lights and I presume he was there only to emphasize certain beats that Mick couldn't get enough "oomph" into.

At first, I was really disappointed to see this. I wondered what the joy of seeing this band was for hardcore fans if Mac needed this much help to flesh out their sound. But the rationale I used was that as we get older, we need certain types of assistance to do what we'd like to do. Canes, wheelchairs and Viagra come to mind. I allowed that it wasn't horrible that these other players were onstage with the "real" Fleetwood Mac, just a little eye-opening. While I was pondering this during the fourth song, the keyboard player picked up a guitar and strummed along. What song does Fleetwood Mac possibly have in their catalog that requires four guitars?

There were pretty good sized video screens above the stage which provided very good close-ups of the band members. Knowing this, Stevie Nicks should talk to the video camera director and tell him to back the hell up. She was in outer space during the first half-dozen or so songs. She was expressionless and her eyes were vacant of life as her head lilted from side to side slowly as she sang. I don't know what she was on, but she either had too much or too little. Once, while watching football at a friend's house, I saw then San Diego Chargers quarterback Stan Humphries suffer a horrible tackle from the blindside. As he was taken off of the field on a golf cart, the cameras closed in on his face and he was making comical expressions. It looked like something out of a Popeye cartoon and we all cracked up, but I felt bad later when I found out that those are symtoms of a concussion; the wide eyes and exaggerated blinking are efforts to let light into the eye. Remembering that, I wondered what Stevie had hit her head on backstage before the show.

She was dressed in her trademark flowing gypsy garb, but no amount of material could hide the fact that she'd put on a few pounds. In fact, the first outfit she had on was dark and fairly drab. She wore some kind of Herman Munster heeled boots and she had to shuffle to walk in them. I thought she looked like a fat Jawa from Star Wars.

I thought for the most part that she sounded pretty darn good, though. She can't hit the high notes anymore. This was particularly evident during Rhiannon. Just when you were expecting a high note, she come through with lower, yet tasteful, note. It still fit the song and I thought it was better that she change it up that way instead of attempting to hit the high ones and embarrass herself. Hey, we all can't do what we used to do when we were 25.

Mick Fleetwood was a kick. He is very animated and mugs for the camera every time he's on. I saw a VH1 concert once where he did this and I thought it was a little bothersome, but there in the arena it was pretty fun to watch. I've read that Animal, the drummer from the Muppet Show band, was modeled after Keith Moon of the Who, but now I'm convinced that Mick Fleetwood is the key influence.

But early into the evening, it was clear that this was to be The Lindsey Buckingham Show. Never having seen Fleetwood Mac live before, I wasn't sure if Buckingham's behavior was par for the course or not, but it bothered me all the same. He clearly loves the spotlight in what I assumed was an ensemble cast performance. The first thing I noticed about him was that he's still getting his hair done at Art Garfunkel Barber College. Other luminaries that call upon the students at AGBC include Cosmo Kramer, Lyle Lovett and that guy in Eraserhead.

Lindsey Buckingham was full of energy and in the beginning, I was kind of impressed that he was so into it. He aggressively strummed his guitar and made strained faces while singing. But, from time to time, he would stomp around the stage like Frankenstein's monster and grimace like he was raking his fingers not against the strings of a guitar, but, oh...let's say a cheese grater. These poses work during Megadeth shows, but Fleetwood Freakin' Mac? C'mon Lindsey!

Let me say here as a disclaimer of sorts that the man can flat out play the guitar. He did play some real tasty solos and he had a really good tone all night, but his antics wore real thin real quick. At the end of one solo, he finished it off by slapping at the strings with both hands like he was in a girl fight. I looked at Mary and mouthed the words, "What the hell was that?" During another solo, he stumbled about as if, after playing this grouping of notes for the 1700th time, on a Thursday night in Fresno, in front of a bunch of overaged frat boys and aging stoner chicks, that this was the one performance that really took it out of him and moved him to the brink of exhaustion. Please. What a ham.

That's what I'll always know him as from here on out: Lindsey BuckingHAM.

He acted like the kid you always see at the grocery store running around, knocking shit over and screaming at the top of his lungs. You shake your head and wonder where the hell his mother is. Well, at the Fleetwood Mac show, I was wondering where Mrs. BuckingHAM was. I really wanted to see her so that I could shake my head and give here the old, "tsk, tsk, tsk".

The capper for me was when he and Stevie Nicks did some sort of bullfight/slowdance thing during a song. Stevie still looked pretty messed up, but had changed out of her Jawa costume and into another flowing mess of fabric and Lindsey was all wound up like a Ritalin deprived spastic. During an instrumental passage, he spied her from across the stage and waved at her with both arms. She stood her ground (I think the signals from her brain were slowed by whatever she was on, so she wasn't going to move anyway) and he charged like a gay bull, passing by her running like Pee Wee Herman. He pranced by her a couple of more times with her only barely able to watch him go by with a disinterested gaze. They finally collided and did some bizarre slow dance, the kind you see around 1:45 in the morning at a "drinking bar". Lindsey let go of Stevie when he saw John McVie out of the corner of his eye. He lunged at John, who had been peacefully playing his bass parts just stageleft of Mick's kit just like he has for the last 30+ years. I was watching it happen on the stage, but had to look up to the video screen to see if the in-house video director was going to follow Lindsey.

The director followed Lindsey's every step (Why wouldn't he? After all, this was The Lindsey BuckingHAM Show) and I saw John McVie actually cringe when Lindsey approached him, bounding like Tigger on bathtub crank. It looked like Lindsey was attempting to hug John, but John turned away with his shoulders hunched, as if someone had put an ice cube down his shirt. Lindsey bounced away and turned his attention to the adoring crowd. I saw it happen, but I wonder if the fans saw it like I did. John McVie probably wondered who the hell gave Lindsey the cookie backstage.

Not long after this, Mary leaned over to me and told me that we could go at any time. I knew that I didn't exactly look enthusiastic during the show and didn't want to be the reason we would leave early, so I told her that I'd stay if she wanted to. I knew there'd be more hits on the way and probably a long encore. Her response to me? "This is bullshit. I'm done." That's my girl. So we left early. Who cared?

Kevin and Marla had left already. We said our good-byes to Dawn and Mike and made our way out onto the concourse where the odd drunk was staggering about. I figured that I'd better hit the head one more time before the trip home. In the john, I ran into four more of what I came to call the Five-Oh, what with the Hawaiian shirts and all. These guys were blitzed beyond repair and were pretty quiet compared to the Animal House atmosphere of the bathroom earlier. I stepped up to the urinal, hoping to avoid any kind of drunken banter. But then one piped up with, "Christine McVie! It's jus' not the same without Christine McVie! Where was Christine McVie?!?"

There was a awkward silence. I was about to submit that she was not involved in this tour for whatever reason and that I agreed that her presence might have helped a bit, when one of the Five-Oh chimed in with a prominent slurring effect, "From the looks of things, it appears that Stevie Nicks ate her".

They all uncontrollably busted up. I had to smile. For as much as these guys and their kind had annoyed me all night, that was pretty fucking funny. I left the bathroom shaking my head, wondering how he came up with that, as he and his cronies high-fived each other into the night.

I didn't hate the show. I haven't gone around saying that Fleetwood Mac sucked that night. It just didn't hit me right, I guess. But I didn't go in with high expectations, either. What it boils down to is that I wasn't entertained. And I was bored. These are cardinal sins in the business. I learned a valuable lesson that night; when you have marginal interest in a band, set limits for yourself. I don't hate Fleetwood Mac. But I'm not going out of my way to see them again. I'm also going to make sure Stevie Nicks has been fed if I ever get backstage passes.

Primus Sucks In Seattle (Part Four--The End)

Mary and I stepped up to the I.D. checkers at the entrance to the Beer Garden. To call it a Beer Garden is being pretty generous with the description; it really was more like a Beer Prison Exercise Yard. It was located behind the black curtain that blocked the view of the stage and its perimeter was determined by metal blockades, much like the ones used to protect Al Roker from the I-Went-To-New-York-City-And-Waved-For-Three-Hours morons on the Today show. There were five portable beer stands and no lines!

Even though the doors had opened a little early, the Beer Prison Exercise Yard was not overly populated. It seemed that most of the fans that had waited in line before the show bolted for the area directly in front of the stage, so it was pretty quiet behind the curtain. We had our I.D.s checked, smiling because we obliterated the date on the "must be born on this day or before" signs and got a kick out of the 22 year old security guard when he did a double-take upon seeing birthdates in the 1960s on our licenses. That's right sonny, we're here to see Primus and bless your heart for wonderin' if we were lost.

We thought it was odd that they'd gone through the trouble to check I.D.s at the entrance to the Yard, but not given us a bracelet or a hand-stamp. We walked into the Yard and looked for a place to sit down. There were a few tables spread out, but most were occupied. Mary spied a couple of tables with just a few occupants way at the far end of the Yard. So we ordered up a couple of Fat Tire Ales and there was a discussion between the two people manning the stand over whether I had to show my I.D. again. I submitted that I had indeed shown my card to the fine folks at the entrance, but they could see it again here at the stand if need be. I was waved off and they poured my two tasty brews.

The wife and I made our way to one of the under-occupied tables at the far end of the Yard. Security guards manned the blockades every 40 feet or so and it gave the pen even more of a jailhouse feel. I also felt a little like an exhibit on display. People would stroll by the Yard and watch us drink our beer. It was a little annoying and I began to understand why primates throw their feces at zoo visitors.

There were two big dudes at the table we chose. They nodded and smiled when we asked if we could join them. After learning that they were from the Seattle area, I asked if they held concerts in the Seahawks Exhibition Center very often. They raised their eyebrows and said not that they know of. They too, were surprised to see that a concert was being held here instead of one of the local theaters or clubs. We exchanged theories and ended up shrugging, at least happy that beer was being served.

Another couple then came up and asked to sit at the table. The guy was completely stoned. Baked, I believe, is the term the kids use these days. He sat very rigidly in his chair in an effort to maintain some illusion of sobriety. A little comatose, he didn't immediately participate in the ensuing small talk between us all at the table. His girlfriend seemed the opposite; she was pretty amped up and spoke very fast and made little sense to me. She was Ying to his Yang, I suppose. Somewhere during the evening, their levels of intoxication would match up perfectly, him waking up and her coming down. I imagine that moment must be romantic in a strange way.

They were all impressed that Mary and I were from California and came to this show. I was assuring them that we didn't make the trip expressly to see Primus, but fit it into our visit to Seattle, when I noticed a guy walking towards the last beer stand. He was walking with a look of determination and purpose, but never glanced up at the beer prices or even at the two people behind the counter.

Then I realized he was heading for the grey plastic trash can on the side of the beer cart. But I wasn't sure what he was up to until I saw his face blanch a little right as he reached it. "Here we go", I said and Mary turned around just in time to see this guy let it all go.

Normally, I wouldn't watch such a spectacle. Seeing, or even hearing, someone wretch can easily induce a gag reflex in most people. Hell, just reading this has some of you grimacing, at least a little more than my prose would ordinarily cause. But this young man was so business-like and efficient that no one at our table could look away. We were about 20 feet away from the action, yet no sound was emitted and the visuals weren't half as disgusting as the average IHOP breakfast plate.

With his hands still on his knees, he paused once and gazed over his shoulder to see the look on the face of the weary beer vendor. The lady frowned slightly and turned away. "Sorry", he said and went back to finishing the task at hand. I looked around the table and everyone was gawking at this fete. One of the two first guys at the table broke the stunned silence and yelled out some encouragement to the young man; "Remember bro: puke and rally. Puke and rally." Laughter arose from the tables around us as The Vomiter acknowledged the suggestion with a "thumbs up" and stood up straight. He then walked, slowly at first, over to his friends who were standing in a half-circle watching him make his deposit. He raised his arms in triumph and let forth with a joyous, "Whoooooo!!!"

The sound rang of off the concrete floors and reverberated off of the far walls of the hall. Almost immediately, we heard the responsory cries of "Whooooo!!" and "Yeeeeaaaahhhh!!" from around the Beer Prison Exercise Yard and even from beyond the black curtain. The primal ceremony was repeated several times with more and more yelling from around the hall until a security team escorted our young Vomiter out of the Yard and (I presume) back into General Population.

We turned our attention back to our table-mates and made some more chitchat. We found out that radio in Seattle sucks just as much as it does in Fresno and most everywhere else. Music playing over the P.A. before the show wafted lightly through the air; strange music that sounded at times like old soft swing tunes with clarinets and other times like dreamy soundscapes created by instruments of unknown origin. Then I recognized some selections as tunes from Danny Elfman's soundtrack to Pee-Wee's Big Adventure. Wonderful, I thought. Mary is not a Pee Wee Herman fan in the least and this would not gear her up for a Primus show. I, on the other hand, saw this music as somehow fitting for Primus warm up tunes.

We got another round and started thinking about getting a place to stand out on the Exhibition Center's floor. It was getting close to 8:00 and we didn't want to be stuck in the Yard when Primus hit the stage. As we drained the last of our beers, we listened to the disembodied voice of Frank Rizzo over the P.A. The board operators were now playing a Jerky Boys CD. Again, somehow fitting.

We exited the Yard and made our way onto the floor where the earlybirds had been while we had our drinks. Instead of joining the fracas right away, we decided to look at the merchandise booth. I found a cool Primus shirt and an '04 tour poster. Mary surprised me by buying a ladies Primus shirt. It reads, "Here Come The Bastards" with the image of a blonde, screaming and recoiling like some 1950s horror flick lobby poster. Its adorable.

Most of the area in front of the stage was full of people in all sorts of concert shirt regalia. Shirts from concerts past were worn with pride and represented all genres of music. There were shirts with logos of Metallica, Pink Floyd, Grateful Dead, Phish, Yes, and Bob Marley among many others. I thought it was interesting to see fans from the "jamband" scene in such large numbers at this show. I can only surmise that its due to the fact that bassist/vocalist Les Claypool has been playing with many bands of that genre in recent years and has created some crossover interest in Primus. I never have seen Primus as appealing to the neo-hippies of the "jamband" arena. That is, until I saw this show.

We took up a spot near the soundboard and found a decent angle for Mary to see the stage from. Primus is taper-friendly and I noticed a few taping rigs in front of the board. I also noticed some costumed folks gearing up for the show.


The guy in the middle is the mosquito from the cover of the Primus EP, Miscellaneous Debris. Who the gal on the left is and why an Oompa Loompa was there, I have no clue.

The stage was bare except for 3 large white balloons that seemed about 6 feet tall. As the lights went down, they were raised above the stage and "PRIMUS" was projected onto each of them. The band took the stage and Claypool started things off with some rumbling bass riffs that eventually led into "Here Come The Bastards". Mary smiled and nodded at me. She bought the right shirt tonight.

In the time we had before the show, I looked around at the Exhibition Center and became a little concerned about the sound quality of a vacuous place like this. But my worries were soon laid to rest; it sounded surprisingly good. The sound was clear and bright, not too boomy like I expected. The vocals were a little low in the mix and if you weren't familiar with the lyrics to the tunes, I doubt you could make any out. Mary struggled with that a bit, but she got the gist of it by virtue of having to endure past Primus shows.

The band pounded away and stretched many tunes way past their studio incarnation's length. Was this Les incorporating a "jamband" sensibility to Primus' music? In the past, I'd only seen Primus do a standard show, ripping away at song after song, squeezing in as many as possible during the concert. This time, they meandered around inside of songs for awhile, sometimes making me forget what song it was that they were playing until it was reprised a few minutes later. I was really enjoying every note, but I stole a few glances over at Mary to make sure she was hanging in there. I'd gotten her this far and didn't want to lose her now. So as much as I was getting off on the show, in my mind I was thinking, "C'mon guys, move onto something my wife will dig!"

Primus featured some selections from the album, Pork Soda, which is probably my least favorite from their catalog, but they gained somewhat of a new life in my head hearing them again live. At one point, Les Claypool thanked the audience for "comin' out to the car show tonight", an obvious reference to the fact that this was a strange venue to hold a concert. I doubt most of the moshpit knuckledraggers got that one.

On the large white balloons, video images were displayed during songs. Most were of the band cavorting about in various costumes and poses. The film was sped up just a bit and skipped frames from time to time, making a bizarre effect. During the song, My Friend Fats, computer generated video of a human X-ray played and at times I thought the imagery was very TOOL-esque. On a side note: Upon first hearing My Friend Fats after buying the latest Primus EP/DVD, I thought it was reminiscent of TOOL's sound. Come to find out, Claypool has been jamming with TOOL's drummer. More outside influences rubbing off on Primus?

The first set came to a close and the word, "Intermission" was put up on each of the balloons. By this time, Mary and I had moved a bit more towards the back of the crowd, our space having been invaded by some breed of giants. They grow 'em big up there in the Northwest and neither of us could see the stage except for glimpses through bobbing heads. We didn't come all this way to see Primus a few seconds at a time between two Sasquatch, so we migrated to the rear where we could see the entire stage and the sound, while not as thumpin', was still quite good.

So when I saw "Intermission" flash on the balloons, I asked Mary if she wanted a beer during the break. I didn't really need an answer and we turned around and headed for the end of the curtain again. We heard a bunch of hoots and hollers behind us and when we looked to see what was going on, we saw a stampede heading right for us. "They're all heading for Beer Jail", Mary laughed. We were fairly close to the entrance, but we still walked briskly. People passed us by at full sprints, laughing and yelling all the while. It wasn't quite the Land Race at Ozzfest '99 (see story: Archives, April 04), but it may have been more dangerous because these crazed mutants were on concrete.

We got into the Yard and ordered up a couple of drinks. We found a bar-height table to lean on and camp out for the intermission. A couple of huge guys joined us. They had two beers each and were already pretty skunked. I decided to get us another round before the end of the break and got in line at one of the stands. Security was all over the Yard now because there were some very drunk people wandering around. My line was moving well and I had no worries about getting served before the second set started. Just then, the booth next to the one I was in line for shut down and those in that line were directed to another booth. There was a mass migration of drunks and much confusion. The security manager, who had on one of those Cape Canaveral headsets, was talking excitedly into his mouthpiece and waving at someone across the Yard.

I was second in line now and saw that this whole situation was going to get the kibosh put on it any minute. The head of security was now standing right next to me and I was watching him as beads of sweat built up on his forehead while he looked nervously from side to side. He leaned over to one very drunk young kid and cut him off. The kid protested loudly and more people chimed in. The Yard was on the brink of chaos. If there had been mattresses around, these maniacs would have set them on fire and thrown them around, just like in those Pelican Bay documentaries.

The security guy had seen enough. Just as I was stepping up to the counter to order, he leaned over my shoulder and told the vendors to shut it down. I looked at him and said, "Ah, no. C'mon man, I just got up here".

"Sorry, sir. That's it tonight", he replied.

I told him, "Y'know, I waited patiently while these kids caused all the problems here. Just one more round, huh?"

He looked at me pretty hard for a moment and asked, "How many have you had tonight?"

"Me?", I asked, putting my palm on my chest. "Two or three". I was not drunk and he knew he was dealing with an adult here.

"Alright, one more beer, but after that its shut down", he said not so much to me but to the beer vendor.

He started to walk away, so I put my hand on his elbow. "Uh, actually, I was going to get a beer for my wife too."

This time he thought I was scamming him so he said, "Okay, where's your wife?" with a hint of smartass.

"Shit, man. Are you kidding me?"

"Nope. Where is she?"

"She's way over there", I said pointing off into the far reaches of the Yard. I could see how he might think I was trying to get over on him. "I'm serious, she's right over there.

"Let's see her", he smirked.

"Let's go", I said and we walked about halfway to where Mary was standing with the huge guys at the bar table. She came into view about 50 feet away and I waved to get her attention. She caught my gaze and waved back, but with a somewhat confused smile, wondering who the hell I was standing with. I said under my breath, "That's it Honey, wave to the nice security man." I turned to find out if he was looking where I was. "See?", I asked him.

"Yeah, okay", he muttered. We started to turn to head back to the stand when he stopped dead and looked at me hard again. "Wait a minute. Whose beers are those?" He was pointing to the huge guys' four full beers on the table in front of Mary. This time one of the huge guys caught us looking at him and he waved enthusiastically with the dumbest grin I've ever seen. I laughed and said, "Naw, man. That ain't my boy. I don't even know that guy. Those are his beers, I swear." We looked back to the table and the big idiot now gave me a big "thumbs up".

"Swear to God, man", I giggled while holding my hands up in innocence.

The security guy chuckled and we walked over to the beer stand. He leaned in to the vendor and said, "Two more to this guy and no one else, alright?" The confused vendor nodded and poured me two Fat Tires. As I paid, I could hear the whiny protests of the drunks that had been left in the aftermath of the near riot. All the other stands were already shut down and when I turned to take my beer back to the table, I felt the thirsty glare of three-hundred angry drunkards.

As I approached Mary at the table, I held the beers aloft and cheered, "Last two pours in the house right here". That didn't go over too well, but Mary laughed and we sipped our treasured brew slowly to savor the victory.

Right about then, we heard the crowd roar in approval of the lights going down. The second set was starting. We could hear the show just fine through the curtain, so instead of slamming the beer, we just took our time and headed out after the first song. This time, we took up various locations around the Exhibition Center's floor, checking out different vantage points. About halfway through the second set, we settled on a spot closer to the exit doors so as to make a quick escape at the conclusion of the show.

Mary was holding up remarkably well considering the new, expansive style Primus was playing in. But a 15 minute drum solo almost did her in towards the end. Even I had to question the pacing where a drum solo comes so late in the show when you've already severely challenged your audience's attention span as it is. By the end of the second set, she was ready to go, but I protested. Traditionally, Primus would play one song for the encore. I couldn't see leaving with just one more song to go (although we did do just that at a Gov't Mule show once--Archives: April '04).

Luckily, the encore was Jerry Was A Race Car Driver, a chunky-riffed tune that is a strong fan favorite. Right as the lights came up, we made tracks for the exit doors. We beat most of the mob out. Walking back down the alley towards Pioneer Square, we hailed a cab to take us back to the hotel. As we climbed in the back seat, the Pakistani driver asked us if the Mariners won.

"Oh, we didn't go to the game", Mary said.

The driver looked confused. "No?", he asked.

"No, we were at a concert next door", I told him.

He nodded, "Oh, I see. Who was in the concert?"

"Primus", I said.

"Who?", he blurted. "Primush?"

"Uh, no. Primus", I corrected him. "They're a rock band."

"Oh, I see", he replied, smiling. "They were good, yes? Primush?"

Oh brother, I thought. This went on for a few blocks with little success. So for all the effort it took to get Mary to see Primus in Seattle, my biggest challenge was trying to explain Primus to a Pakistani cabbie.

Primus Sucks In Seattle (Part Three)

"PrimusPrimusPrimusPrimusPrimusPrimusPrimusPrimus."

Thus went the continuing mantra in my head. It was especially prominent now that I actually had ordered tickets to the Primus show. I should have been relieved to know that we'd be going, but in some ways, I became almost paranoid.

I had no idea of what kind of venue a place named the Seahawks Exhibition Center would be. Because the Seahawks Stadium to which it is connected to is fairly new, I wondered if they'd built a theater-style performance space into what I assumed was a convention center. But my intuition told me that it was going to be held on the convention center's floor itself and since it was a general admission show, we'd have to get there early so we could get a good spot. I doubted there'd be seats and with Mary standing at 5'3", I'd need to be sure she could see the stage and not the back of a mullet all night. How ironic it would be for her to be at a show she may not even like and not be able to at least see it?

I went online and looked around for info on the Exhibition Center again. This time I found some photos, but they weren't of much help. Some showed what looked like a banquet hall, a few that seemed to be shots of some kind of trade show, and one of a wedding. But these shots were fairly close up to the event and gave me no real idea what kind or how big of a place this was. As it was, the week before leaving on vacation got a little crazy and I didn't have time to further pursue my answers aside from verifying addresses and printing out some maps, so we'd be going in cold.

In the early evening of June 1st, the night before the Primus show, we walked to Safeco Field from a cool little bar where our hotel shuttle dropped us off. This would give us a little on-site recon as we would walk right by the Exhibition Center. It was pretty nondescript from the outside and had no marquee or even posters indicating that there would be a show the next night. Uh-oh. Now I was getting a little nervous. If there was a cancellation, that would be out of our control and we'd find something else to do. But, if there was a venue change, it may have happened weeks ago and local media would have alerted ticket holders by now. How would we know where to go? I'd have to make some phone calls tomorrow. That's it, get up early and call the Seahawks people. If no answer, I'd call Ticketbastard. No, they're morons. Wait, I could call local radio stations. But what stations? Oh, dear.

You see now how much of an old woman I can be sometimes. I didn't let on to Mary except to mention in passing that I didn't notice any signs or posters for Primus. Then we passed a ticket window and she pointed out a small events calendar. I tried to act casual and breeze on over to see if the show was still on for the next night, but I felt like sprinting through the gameday crowd, knocking people over like some action-film cop; I could hold my ticket up like a badge while yelling, "Out of the way! Primus! Look out! Priiimusss!!"

Right there in white plastic letters stuck into black fabric under the glass was, "Bill Graham Presents: PRIMUS". My body shuddered in relief just a little and I turned to Mary, who hadn't bothered to follow me, and waved my hand ever so nonchalantly. "Ah, yeah. It's on. I knew it would be." After that, I was able to settle down and enjoy the game at Safeco.

The next day, we spent most of our time over at the Space Needle and the Experience Music Project, both at the Seattle Center. The Space Needle provided an awesome 360 degree view of the city and it was a gorgeous day to be up there. The Experience Music Project museum was a blast. The exhibits were first class, showcasing memorabilia and providing hands-on interactive displays. Much of it was focused on the Northwest's contribution to popular music (Hendrix, Heart, Nirvana and the rest of the grunge scene bands, etc.), but there were plenty of national and international artists represented as well. I was impressed by the whole layout of the place. The Hendrix exhibit hall itself blew my mind. It contained many of his guitars, including the one he used at Woodstock and pieces of the one he destroyed at Monterey Pop. For an armchair music historian like myself, looking at those articles, even through glass, is like stepping back in time onto the muddy field in upstate New York on that Monday morning in '69.

We could have stayed at the EMP all day and into the night, but we had the concert hanging over our heads. So we walked back to the hotel to change and catch the shuttle down to Pioneer Square and hit another bar or two before the show. The hotel provided that shuttle free to guests going to Mariners games. We'd used it the night before and figured that we could get dropped of at the same place and still be close to the Exhibition Center. (We were in Seattle for 3 days and 2 nights and never took the car out of the hotel's parking garage.) On the walk back to the room, I picked up a Seattle free rag called The Seattle Weekly and leafed through it to find any more info on that night's show.



Mary and I washed up and hopped on the shuttle. We had the same driver from the night before. He'd given us some great advice on where to eat and drink then and pointed us to some cool new joints on this night. We ended up at a place called Sluggers and split a burger and fries. We had a couple of beers, too, but I wasn't splittin' those. I also had wondered if the Exhibition Center sold alcohol, so we got our load on early. It was about 6:50pm and we had to get over to the show.

With a little buzz on (Tony's Plan in action), we traipsed on down the alleyway along with the Mariners fans, they heading to Safeco and us heading into the unknown. We veered left onto the court in front of the doors to the Seahawks Exhibition Center and noticed that 3 or 4 radio stations were taking down their remote broadcast tents and packing up their vans. The doors had opened early! Shit!

There was no line as we rushed up to the turnstiles. The patdown was virtually non-existent and that saved us a little time. An old man tore our tickets and we burst into the place. All I saw was 165,370 square feet of concrete and a temporary stage set up off in the distance. We had walked about the same distance from the bar as it would take to get to the stage.

For a 360 degree virtual tour of the Seahawks Exhibition Center's West Hall, go HERE. You'll see what I mean.

Without saying a word to each other, we both instinctively scanned the entire floor for something. I had no luck and I looked over at Mary and she pursed her lips and said, "I don't see one".

No beer stand.

I did see a concession stand over yonder on the back forty, so we trudged across the concrete expanse in search of yet another cool libation or in Mary's case, necessary fuel for the evening's event. As we got closer, we both squinted to see if any familiar neon beer signs caught our attention. We also realized we were walking along a huge black curtain. I hadn't paid much attention to it, figuring that it just provided a barrier so that idiot concert goers weren't having the run of the entire place. We approached the end of the curtain's length and a 20-something ahead of us smiled, pointed and said to his buddy, "I'll be damned, they've got a beer garden".

I smiled at Mary, put my arm around her shoulder, steered her around the end of the curtain and chuckled, "I'll be damned, they've got a beer garden."

Next up: Primus Sucks In Seattle (Part 4)

Primus Sucks In Seattle (Part Two)

Mary's reaction to my desire to see Primus in Seattle was consistent with her past feelings about the band. To this day, I don't play Primus CDs at the house or in the car if she's around, unless I'm trying to get her goat. So now I really had to tread lightly if I was gonna have any luck here.

I said, "Oh, c'mon...it'll be fun. We'll have a few pre-show drinks and-"

She interrupted me; "You'd better get me bombed if we're going to see Primus". I saw that as a wobble on her part. My little brain read this as meaning: if I get her really, really drunk, she'll go to the show and won't care who's onstage. So I've got a chance!

She stood there in the kitchen and stared at me as if she could see the little hamster wheel in my head go 'round and 'round. She realized then that she'd left me an opening and my hopes would be up. "Well, we'll see", she mumbled as she turned back to getting dinner ready. I nearly did a cartwheel on my way back to The Mistress and did an internet search for Seahawks Exhibition Center, which was the venue that Primus was to play. I found the site and looked over some info and photos. The Seahawks Exhibition Center is adjacent to the new Seahawks Stadium and right across the street from Safeco Field, where we'd be the night before the concert. I then searched for a hotel that would be close to the venues and other attractions. I also went to another site.

Mary walked by the open door to The Mistress' room and did a double take when she saw over my shoulder that I'd navigated over to PRIMUSSUCKS.COM. I didn't know she was there until I heard her exhale, "Ah, Jeeezus. What have I started?" I spun around in my chair and tried to reassure her that I was just doing some reconnaissance to see if it was viable to do what we wanted to do in Seattle. As much as I wanted to see Primus, I didn't want to compromise our time sightseeing. I did, however, point out that many of the city's attractions were very close to one another and we could get around pretty quickly and easily. She shook her head and walked away. I stared blankly at the empty doorway and realized that I had to slow this process down.

"Concentrate on the Mariners game and the hotel first, Tony", I said to myself. I went back into the kitchen to tell Mary that the concert could be looked at as a "backburner" option. This wasn't a ploy on my part just to appease her; there was no way that I was going to drag her to a concert if she wasn't willing. Neither of us would have a good time if one of us was miserable. So I offered to look into other stuff to do up there and maybe we'd catch the show if it didn't interfere with anything. She said that would be fine, so the door was still cracked open. But man, I wanted to kick that door open!

In the coming weeks, after some research, we discussed our plans for vacation. The time in Salem was mapped out to be just what we expected; hanging out with family and relaxing. Then it was onto the Seattle plan. We wanted to see Pike Place Market (y'know, where they throw the fish around), the Space Needle, the underground tour, and most definitely the Experience Music Project museum. On Tuesday, June 1st, we'd go to a Mariners game. We were really excited about seeing Safeco Field, especially since Mary scored some primo tickets from her company's office in Seattle (20 rows up from 3rd base).

Wednesday night was still wide open and nothing except Primus stood out as an event. So Mary warmed up to the idea little by little. Just days before we were scheduled to leave Fresno for the beautiful Northwest, The Mistress and I sauntered over to Ticketbastard's website and ordered up two tickets to Primus. I almost couldn't believe it. My wife was going to see Primus in concert again. And this time on purpose.

Next up: Primus Sucks In Seattle (Part 3)


Blurb about the Portland show (held the day before the Seattle show) from the free rag, The Portland Mercury. It describes Mary and I perfectly. Eerie.

Primus Sucks In Seattle (Part One)

"Sorry", said the guy wretching into the trash can to the beer lady behind the counter of the portable beer cart. He had calmly walked over to the plastic grey barrel and let it all go as quietly as possible.

But I've started this tale in the middle. Let's go back to the beginning.

My wife Mary and I made plans back in April to visit her sister up in Oregon in June. Two nephews would be graduating from high school and a niece from the University of Oregon. Since Mary is godmother to the girl and one of the boys, we saw this as a pretty important trip. After securing the time off from work, we settled into the thought of another relaxing visit in Salem. Salem's a cool city; I always visit the local independent record store and the huge used book store. (This trip's booty: two Morcheeba CDs, a Deep Purple and two Steve Winwood discs for $3 apiece, and a Lucinda Williams bootleg DVD) But Mary mentioned that her sister's family wouldn't have the week off of work and would further be busy getting ready for the graduations, so we could take off by ourselves for a few days.

I'm a city mouse, so Portland came to mind immediately. It's only an hour from Salem and we'd enjoyed our brief visits in the past. Mary said that maybe we should head up to Seattle instead. We'd never been and there's plenty to do up there. I agreed and we decided that we would drive the four hours from Salem to Seattle on Tuesday, June 1st and stay two nights. We most certainly wanted to check out a Mariners game up at Safeco, do the Space Needle, and check out the Experience Music Project museum. I started getting excited; I think it was about an hour after we'd made our decision when I jumped on the computer (or as Mary refers to it, "the Mistress") to see what was happening in Seattle on June 1st and 2nd. I checked the Mariners schedule and we were in luck as they were to play Toronto that night. Cool, there's Tuesday, I thought. So now we had Wednesday night to play around with. I couldn't control myself for long. I headed over to POLLSTAR.COM as I'm wont to do when preparing to travel and punched up Seattle and 06/02/04 . Here's a transcript of my thoughts as I went down the short list of bands playing that night in the Emerald City:

"Okay, let's see here.......hmmm......never heard of them, they're awful, local band, local band, boring, don't know them...

Then I saw the name and in my best Homer Simpson:

"Oooo! Primus! Aw, but Mary won't go for that. She hates Primus. Not as much as she hates the Grateful Dead, but hate is still the operative word here."

But it was too late for me. I would have to ask Mary if we could go to see Primus. I was going to fixate on this until I got an answer. Just knowing that there was a cool show in town would drive me up the wall if I were somewhere across town that night, no matter how great a time we'd be having. I tend to do that. I'll give you an example of what went through my mind that night after seeing the Seattle date on the web:

"PrimusPrimusPrimusPrimusPrimusPrimusPrimusSeattlePrimus".

Now, I thought, how to ask? I've gotta hit this one just right. I've got a very cool wife. She's been to some great shows with me that she normally wouldn't see of her own volition, like Tool (three times!), Red Hot Chili Peppers and even Tom Jones. Yeah, I know; God help me, I like Tom Jones. Anyway, she's always enjoyed these shows on some level, but she's also seen Primus twice in the opening band slot, once for Rush and once for Living Colour. No dice either time. I think her comment to me after I excitedly asked her what she thought when Primus finished their set before Rush came on was, "They're shit".

So if I had a few strikes against my chances of seeing Primus in Seattle, I may have had one swing left. Mary and I had once seen a Gov't Mule show in San Francisco where Les Claypool, Primus' lead singer and badass bass player, sat in and played the first set. Mary likes the Mule almost as much as I do, so when Les provided the thump on the bass necessary to quench her thirst for the rumble, she was duly impressed and even started seeing Primus in a different light. It was a most narrow sliver of light, but it was my chance to swing for the fences.

I approached her while she was making dinner in the kitchen. I felt like I was 16 again, asking my parents for the keys to the car. I think I said something like, "Um, hey Honey?" She barely looked up from all the pots and pans and replied with, "Yeah, what?" Ooo, not the best time maybe, I thought. But I forged ahead. "Hey, uh, how do you feel about seeing a band on the second night up in Seattle?" She looked up for a moment, "Sounds alright. Who's playing?", she asked. "Well", I started, "it's a band you've seen before..." and before I could finish, I felt a sheepish grin fighting its way from behind my lips. I was actually a little embarrassed. Mary's eyes lit up a little; "King's X?"

"No, I couldn't get that lucky", I told her. "But they are a trio. And you kinda like the bass player. And they're...."

Her face crinkled up like she smelled something rotten and said, "Not Primus".

Crap.

Next up: Primus Sucks In Seattle (Part Two)