The Automatik

El Matador
February 9, 2002

If you notice, I did not include the name of the opening band. That is because I never caught it. They said it several times, it was even printed on a flyer, but it was long and it was some sort of bizarre Spanglish and I just didn’t feel like writing it down. After BJM, nothing else seemed to matter anyway.

But let’s set the tone for the evening first: the last weekend before Mardi Gras, a time when alcohol-fueled, beignet-enriched malcontents stagger through the streets on a 24-hour-a-day basis, where mulleted white trash freaks rub elbows (and other body parts) with Abercrombie & Fitch-styled frat boys, when women (no ladies here) will pull up their tops in a flash to show you “what they’ve got” whether or not it’s worth looking at and whether or not you want to see it. All in the name of catching plastic beads and tin doubloons from giant floats and of course, cementing New Orleans’ name as the “Greatest Party on Earth” and “The City That Care Forgot.” Unless you are a local, in which case you curse every pile of puke and plastic go-cups that you have to step over, when every drunk creep and screaming/crying half-dressed female that you must dodge raises your blood pressure about ten notches.

It was with this dread that I ventured into the French Quarter last night. I was going to drive to Chris’s house and then take a taxi from there, since it’s so much closer than where I live, but his roommate Gabriel graciously offered to drop me off. As what should have been a ten minute jaunt ground into a screeching half-hour to forty-five minute journey, Gabriel asked if he could tag along since by this point we were both light-headed from hunger. Now it was our task to find parking. Stuck behind a car crammed with white, sweaty, horny teenagers, we laughed uproariously as we saw their glittered bumper sticker: GHETTO BOOTY. We cursed them even more when they took a parking spot from us. But Gabriel ensconced his car in a makeshift parking lot and we got our taser guns and mace at the ready and trudged forth into the night.

Caf� Angeli is the best 24-hour restaurant in the Quarter, by far. It was crowded as hell. We managed to find an empty table quickly though, and right next to the famous Richard Gene Simmons! Somehow the topic of Flash Gordon came up and Gabriel and RGS waxed nostalgic about the movie, the soundtrack, the costumes. This turned into a detailed discussion of the Transformers movie and other pop culture dreck. I gotta say RGS (whose “real” name is Elric) is a pretty damn nice guy and quite knowledgeable about this stuff. Suddenly, we realized that it was 11:21 p.m. and we hightailed it to El Matador for the show. No one had started playing yet, again, this IS New Orleans AND Mardi Gras. The place was a veritable shooting gallery of mod/indie scenesters and ex-friends and ex-friends ex-boyfriends (and vice versa), but I played it cool. They all ignored me, anyway. Gabriel and I had a grand old time laughing about stupid stuff.

I espied a flyer advertising an upcoming Matador show with the Moldy Peaches. So of course I started loudly ranting about how much they suck. BJM’s Frankie picked THAT moment to walk by and with an impish, yet stoned grin, he followed the path of my finger and said, “Who them? They’re touring with The Strokes.” I nodded and said, “Yes, and they suck.” He pointed devilishly to the BJM flyer and smiled expectantly: “And what about these guys?” I fixed him with my best, ha-ha-you-can’t-fool-me smirk and said, “Oh yeah, they suck too!” This seemed to please him inexplicably and he walked on.

The opening band, Insert Name Here, were pretty good. They were from Memphis and true to that town’s style, they were a little bit Oblivians, a little bit Richard Hell, and a little bit the Make*Up. Not too shabby. But then again, not what I came for. Gabriel had to leave, having just been saddled with a “friend in crisis” crisis. He felt bad, but hey, it’s New Orleans, those things happen on a daily basis so I understood.

The Brian Jonestown Massacre Experience hit the stage and I would never be quite the same. They were all wearing dingy, crocheted scarves…and it was only 50 degrees outside…even the keyboard player, Rob, whose scarf didn’t quite “go” with his wholesome, track team appearance and thrift store tight t-shirt. They seemed a little confused as to how they were going to perform appropriately on such small stage; Frankie was jumping around like a bopping elf, for one. The music sounded FABULOUS, much better than it does on a disc and infinitely more impressive than I’d expected. It was a gorgeous, shambolic, bucolic mess. Then guitarist Jeff Davies mysteriously left the stage about 1/3 of the way through. Then the claws came out.

Anton Alfred Newcombe, singer, guitarist, and resident psychotic (and I say that with only the utmost fondness and appreciation) transformed the show into his own one-man diatribe against anything and everything, all of it a thinly veiled mask for his annoyance at Jeff’s departure. If only I’d had a tape recorder to catch it all verbatim. I did find a piece of paper later and scribbled some bits down, but it was impossible to get it all. Highlights included:

“Our band members are having a discussion about whether or not they want to shoot up DOPE or play music. But I’m going to play music, because I’m HERE TO ENTERTAIN YOU.”

“It’s okay, we’re a competent band with or without him.”

“They’re not gonna unfreeze Walt Disney tomorrow and have him on The Morning Show. (adopts high-pitched whine) Ooh, The Morning Show with Jeff and Fatty. ‘Hi, Fatty!’ ”

“Don’t drink water, fish fuck in water.”

“I dare N*Sync or Britney/Shitney or 98 fuckin’, million, thousand degrees to do anything as good as ‘What’s Going On.’ (This led into an impromptu, a capella, falsetto “crooning” of Marvin Gaye’s “Sexual Healing,” complete with grinding into the mike stand).

“I know it’s Mardi Gras here and I am SO FUCKIN’ TIRED of people screaming out, ‘Show me your zits!’ at me. I don’t have FUCKIN’ acne, MAN!”

“Yeah, well you know I’d like to take Britney, N*Sync and 98 fuckin’ million thousand…and shoot ‘em all right into the fuckin’ SUN! Them AND Walt Disney’s ice cube.”

“I love the ladies. But I don’t fuck ‘em. I teach ‘em HOW to fuck.”

“Okay, now, everybody knows I love the ladies. That’s why there’s no fuckin’ LESBIANS in the world.”

“I’d like to take some time to chat with some of you beautiful ladies in the audience now. I would love to invite you all to have sex with me, you know, every one of you that I could accommodate on my one penis, but I’m here to play music, I’m HERE TO ENTERTAIN YOU.”

“Are there any A&R guys here tonight? (grins evilly) Yeah, and how many credit cards do you have? Well, how many ladies are lining up to hang out with YOU? I don’t mean R & R, not ‘rest and relaxation’ guys, I mean ‘artists and repertoire’ guys.”

“I could be up here shootin’ dope in my eye, my ear, up my ass…I could be like Stevie Nicks with a fuckin’ glass tube, but no, I’m HERE TO ENTERTAIN YOU.”

I wish I could type every single word he uttered in this review. Or that I could be hypnotized to remember it all. There was so much more that wouldn’t translate and can only be described: his constant insistence that he wasn’t “educated like that,” he wasn’t “raised that way;” his non-stop berating of the other band members about their lack of musical abilities, even transforming song lyrics into angry snarls like “Learn how to play the fuckin’ chord right or get off the stage, la la la.” Rob shook his head in horror and sad amusement, Frankie was a mask of boredom and annoyance. He only fought back once at the end of the show when Anton shouted that he wanted to play more and Frankie replied with a peeved, “But we’ve already played like, TWENTY songs.”

Somewhere around the middle of the show, two well-dressed and VERY corporate rock-type guys showed up and the one with the thick, pointy eyebrows and matching goatee started getting all smarmy and frisky with me about sitting in the booth behind me. The other one was more polite, but still had that sheen of cocksure, rich pop star. But of course they were local boys made good, Better Than Ezra. I leaned into the ear of singer Kevin Griffin and mysteriously whispered, “I’ve got two words for you and you tell me what they mean to you.” He laughed gamely. “Reality Patio.” This resulted in a pure, knee-slapping moment for him. “That was our drummer Cary’s band!” I told him I loved them in the 80s and had one of their tunes, “Empty Room” on an old tape from the radio. This seemed to amuse him greatly.

The last BJM song of the night was a half-hour noodlefest in the spirit of the inimitable Redd Kross, the kind that annoys all but the most inebriated and diehard fans. Anton crouched down in front of an amp, cradling his guitar in his lap and proving to everyone that if there had been any question before, yes, he was NOT wearing underwear. Frankie fiddled with his guitar with one hand and guzzled a beer with the other before finally exiting the stage in exhaustion and disgust. Then Rob left and for a while it was just drums, guitar and bass. The drummer left and Anton took over on drums while Dave, the bass player cracked up. They were rudely interrupted by the tell-tale strains of Ozzy on the jukebox. Then, the show officially ended. At 4:00 a.m. A record even by New Orleans’ well-known laissez faire standards.

I was never bored for a minute and quite honestly, I was stunned at the time. I could have watched them for three more hours. I tried to call a cab but the frighteningly intoxicated guy stumbling into walls, telephone poles, and cars near the outside of the club quickly changed my mind and I called Chris instead who was so kind as to pick me up and bring me to my car.

What a great, if twisted and fantastic, evening. If only I had the luxury of seeing BJM more often. Oh, Anton, you are forever engraved in the scrapbook of my heart. Just like Walt Disney’s ice cube.