Driving downtown, I started thinking about why it felt so good to be on my way to see the Smashing Pumpkins. I had been offered $300 for my tickets (2 dead center, 7th Row). I’m a construction worker, and $300 is a good week. The things I feel most fortunate about (besides the love of family and good friends) are to a large degree the experiences I’ve had. Any regrets I might have are generally missed opportunities. I don’t mean hot stock tips or sure winners at the track. I mean times where I could have gone somewhere new, or taken a new risk, met new people or generally in some way taken the road less prudent. I would rather carry the memories and feelings of a good experience than have the vague satisfaction of swinging a deal to get 5 times what I paid for something. Businessmen are a dime a dozen. Experience junkies are, too, but I’m too old to change now. Chances are, I wouldn’t remember what I spent the profit on, anyway. Luckily, my wife agrees, and so we’re on our way.

I’ve liked the Smashing Pumpkins’ music for some years now. I feel what the music says, and the words speak to me, too. I wanted to see them perform, up close at a small venue with reserved seating. Will that be moshing or non-moshing, sir? Umm, non-moshing tonight, please. So, on our way downtown to the Spreckels Theatre. Capacity less than 1500. We parked on 6th, just off Broadway, walked up past 8th to our favorite sushi bar and had dinner. We walked down Broadway to Horton Plaza, got some coffee, and made our way across 2nd to the Spreckels. Most of the people from the internet had described the t-shirts they would have on., and I saw plenty of each t-shirt. There were two big lines for will-call, but we got in the “already have tickets” line (that’s right, we already had tickets). Not many people anywhere near my age, just like when we stood in line for wristbands and tickets. Promptly at 8:00 the line starts moving, we’re in, buy a tour t-shirt (for my son, who won’t be seeing the Pumpkins) and find our seats. Dead center. 7th Row. 30 feet from the stage. I watch the crowd file in.
Skateboards and dark lords; pocket protectors and athletic supporters; sucked-up goths and fucked up cholos; junk and punk; lowrides and mom’s rides; Adore; tattoos; trenchcoats; Siamese Dream; la vida loca; ecstasy; fraternity; Zeros and butterflies; heroes and villains. We look for my wife’s son and his bud, above us in the upper balcony, without success. I tell my wife about mentioning to him that we’re bringing ear plugs, and having him say, “Yeah, well, I’m bringing BINOCULARS!”

I go out to the lobby for a few, and when I get back, my wife says that the guy behind us asked her if we were here of our own free will. I laugh and tell him, yeah, I really like this band, but I can’t help thinking....

Part2: Your Parents Warned You!

I’ve been listening to rock and roll since Little Richard. I’ve been going to concerts for 35 years. It’s easier for me to list the groups I missed than the ones I caught. I’m not going to flash ALL my credentials here, but when it comes to music, and life, for that matter, I’ve been around the block. A few times.

I went to see the Beach Boys at the Surf Fair in Santa Monica in 1962. I saw Muddy Waters in the Village in 1966 when he was first doing electric things. I saw the Beatles in Philadelphia. I saw the damn Turtles in Alaska in 1967. I saw the Jefferson Airplane in San Francisco and Cream in Santa Barbara. I saw the Doors so often that I got tired of them. From Albert Collins to ZZTopp. Winterland, the Fillmore, the Avalon, Earl Warren, the Roxy, the Swing, the Village Theater,stadiums and palladiums. Rockabilly, motown, surf, blues, acid, new wave, punk, grunge, alt, whatever. I was going to concerts unless I was out to sea, or locked up or strung out. Even then I was listening to music and evolving with it.

Yes, son, I’m here of my own free will. As my knowledge increased and my experience deepened, was my taste supposed to atrophy? I was watching Hendrix from the second row on a tab of Sandoz before you were born. I know how to act at one of these things, don’t worry.

I’m not the guy your parents warned you about - I’m the guy your grandparents warned your parents about! A bad influence. Never amount to anything. Doesn’t plan ahead. Lives for the moment. Gonna end up in prison or dead. Well, they were right. I just didn’t stay dead. I know first-hand what Jimmy C is going through, I’ve met his demons and a few more, all mine. Everybody’s gotta do what they gotta do, to get to where they’re gonna get. I prefer life undiluted, now. I’ll take it straight, uncut, pure. I don’t want anything like booze or dope to get between me and the experience.

Am I here willingly? Aren’t you glad you asked? And just why am I here? It’s not for the angst or the posing, although that’s entertaining enough. I came for the rock and roll.

Part 3: Shut the Fuck Up and Play!

The Queens of the Stone Age took the stage at 9:00. Drums, bass, keyboard and guitar/vocal. They weren’t bad, but after about 15 minutes, a little monotonous. Their last song showed some promise, and they were outta there at 9:30.

At 10:00 the lights went down, the band took their places, and Jimmy led them into “I Am One.” This is the first time for me seeing the band live. A first impression is that these are no fashion slaves. James in dark pants/sparkly shirt; D’arcy in tight pants/sparkly tank/cowboy hat (shaved eyebrows/white eye makeup); Jimmy in shorts/muscle shirt (looks like he just paroled); and Billy. He has on a black shirt, buttoned to the neck, over which is a tight brown suit jacket, with what I can only describe as floor-length culottes. It gives the appearance sometimes of a long coat and sometimes a dress. The effect this has on his movements is awesome. Legs and feet so concealed, he appears to glide on stage as in a special effect. The juxtaposition of D’arcy to the left, otherworldly, bobbing, leaning at impossible angles, and the exotic androgynous James to the right, all concentration, and Jimmy, pumped, “on swole”, absolutely punching out the drum part like no other, and Billy, the beautiful Nosferatu in the center, produces a tableaux practically worth the price of admission.

But, I’m here for the music. I don’t have a description of the equipment to share, I’m not going to analyze the show song by song. I don’t collect anything. No ticket stubs, posters, memorabilia, t-shirts, pictures, not even many tapes or CDs. I just collect experiences. Feelings. Impressions. The fact is, those things don’t translate well into words. The way that can be named is not the way. Labeling detracts from the actual object or experience. I heard it asked on the internet, “Is Billy going goth?” Hahaha...that’s funny. The Smashing Pumpkins are neither fashion slaves nor genre slaves.

I know I stood the whole time. I smiled the whole time. I closed my eyes a lot. I sang along when I knew the words and listened to the lyric flow when I didn’t. I remember a couple of flat spots, awkwardnesses, but not many. I laughed out loud when it all came together for them, the way it does sometimes. There were a lot of those moments in time. Billy smiled that little smile quite a bit when those times happened and I laughed to share in it. He thanked us at one point for welcoming them into our fair city. Some of the other things he said at various points were: “Maybe we should shut the fuck up and play,” “Meet our new drummer - Fred Flintstone. It’s a long way from Bedrock.” They made comments about the balconies and jokes about Billy wanting to be an astronaut, but deciding to explore inner space instead of outer space. They seemed to be having a pretty good time, but I have a feeling about the band. I’ll write about it some time in the future.

This is real subjective, but Billy’s immense talent combines for me the hip fatalism of Lou Reed and the white bluesfire of Johnny Winter. A blues poet. He is a special talent, and the other band members are a special complement, especially Jimmy, but Billy is the real deal. Period.