|
MONDAY :: 10.31.05 :: HALLOWEEN :: LAS VEGAS, NV
Ween :: 10.31.05 :: The Joint @ Hard Rock Hotel
Words by Robyn Rubinstein
Ween :: 10.31.05 :: Las Vegas :: By Forrest Reda |
I'll be honest here. A huge part of me doesn't want to tell you about Ween, for my own selfish reasons. I know many people who don't get Ween or who balk at song titles like "She Fucks Me," "Spinal Meningitis," and "Put the Coke on My Dick," so they dismiss Ween, ignoring the latent possibilities of their live performance. Some of those doubters have weak musical constitutions and probably couldn't take the full sonic assault of the live Ween experience, so good riddance. However, the majority of Ween virgins would be ready to follow Geaner and Deaner around the country after one night steeped in the high-voltage psychedelic alt-rock and the foot-up-the-ass experience that is Ween live. It's been some time since a band was able to consistently put its foot all the way up my ass, ready to kick me across the country in blind hedonistic pursuit. Right after the encore that night, I turned to my roommate - who is flying out to Colorado to see their three-show run in Boulder in December – grabbed her arm, looked her dead in the eye, and asked her how much she paid for her plane ticket.
Gean Ween :: 10.31.05 :: Las Vegas
By Forrest Reda |
The staff at The Joint in the Hard Rock seemed entirely ill-prepared to deal with the throng of ticket-holders, and due to their ineptitude, I didn't make it into the gig until "Mutilated Lips," one of the languorous, disturbing tunes that always sets a twisted tone. I was baffled by their costumes until someone explained that they were all carrots, except for Gean who was a pea pod. He summed up his costume thusly: "It's Vegas, I'm a pea, and this is a song called 'AIDS,'" which is my personal favorite HIV carnival ride. The beauty of Ween is that below the dick and fart humor and seemingly testosterone-laden surface is complex, unadulterated rock with borderline inane blather for lyrics. The union of the two goes beyond satire to some whacked-out surrealist playground where Salvador Dali and Henry Rollins get together to hang out and listen to some tunes. If that doesn't scream perfect Halloween party locale, I don't know what does. They sounded solid and excited to be there, whether floating down the "Zoloft" trail or telling you how much "You Fucked Up," and that new song "Gabrielle" is a raging seventies-rock style anthem that improves every time I hear it. No matter how often they ask, I just can't "Leave Deaner Alone," and there is a sweet joy in the languid fuck off of "Baby Bitch."
But really, it totally sucked and you shouldn't waste your time. Honestly, what kind of pussy band dresses up as vegetables for chrissakes? There is no substance to their music, and they're both just a couple of assholes. If you need to get rid of that Boulder Theater ticket, I'll take it.
|
