The Automatik

The Howlin’ Wolf
October 25, 2001

Honestly, I didn’t even think I was going to go to this show. I was dog-tired from driving to and from a conference in Baton Rouge that day (three hours total on-the-road time) and I was going to have to drag my ass out of bed the next day for yet another long trek to day two of the conference. Plus, the massive hype that is The Strokes had me pretty well convinced I’d never find a parking space, much less get in. I tried to take a nap before the show, but I was too keyed up to sleep. I figured I’d cruise by, check out the scene, and take it from there.

Not only did a find a great parking spot a block away, the line for tickets was only about twenty deep! WHOO-HOO! I asked some young, indie rock-looking boys if they were waiting in line and if I was just kidding myself thinking I could get tickets. They said as far as they knew it wasn’t sold out. Alright! I tried not to let the row of ten Vespas near the curb scare me away. I knew the local hipster Mod contingent was going to be in attendance and not because Paul Weller was making an appearance at the gig. I don’t like clique-ish groups of scenesters, but if I let that prevent me from going to shows, I’d be home every weekend.

The young, indie rock-looking boys started talking to me. They were quite nice and rather shy. Turns out one of them thought he knew me from a Bad Religion show, but no, it must have been my bi-locator. Noticing the Woggles/Mr. Quintron show flyer I internally squealed with delight and promptly stole the flyer. I love The Woggles and I’ve never seen Mr. Quintron as he always plays on weeknights and at questionable locales. But I digress.

Almost as soon as I paid and got inside, blond indie rock-looking boy informed me that they had an extra ticket if I knew anyone who wanted one. Sadly, I didn’t. But you know, those tickets were only $10. I’ve paid twice as much for bands with less than half the buzz or the talent of The Strokes. Hmmmm.

Then I spotted the David Cross flyer on a post and almost jumped up and down with glee! David Cross! At The Howlin’ Wolf! Oh, my stars and garters. I stole that flyer, too, then went to lean against a video poker machine and survey the slowly growing crowd.

There sure were a lot of interesting looking folks there, not the least of which was The Strokes’ singer Julian Casablancas, who was apparently now sitting in the empty booth seat next to where I was standing. He got up to play pool with this bizarrely dressed and coiffed girl (space boot sneakers and a tremendous white afro) and I noticed that Mr. Casablancas had quite the womanly thighs. I’m not all hot for The Strokes or anything. But little Julian is rather, um, voluptuous. It was rather unexpected.

If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all. I usually don’t ascribe to this motto, but I think I vented enough annoyance, frustration, and disgust, albeit amused annoyance, frustration, and disgust about The Moldy Peaches while they were performing that I really don’t need to dwell on it anymore. I found their “wacky,” “zany,” pop culture pastiche to be overdone and pretentious, but whatever, I don’t ever have to listen to them again. Turns out that the afro girl is Strokes’ drummer Fab Moretti’s cousin.

Then the lights went down and the show started. I could hardly see the band for all the people packed in front of me. I know I’m short and that’s not everyone else’s fault, but it always seems like the tall people who don’t dance or get at all enthused about the band stand directly in front of me. No matter really, as I closed my eyes the entire time, singing along lyrics and dancing with wild abandon. They were tight, but almost too tight. The few times they adlibbed or noodled made me realize that if they stick around for a while they could be a truly spectacular band.