Monitor Down

I got home at 1 am Thursday morning knowing I had to wake up in five hours, and the tinnitus roaring in my ears could probably have woken up the neighbors then and there. But I was extremely, utterly, brazenly happy.

I had just seen the Smashing Pumpkins live at the Viper Room. One of the most scarce, long-shot bands that also happened to define half of my generation’s high school, college and post-college experience had played less than 20 feet from me in a venue the size of a large studio apartment. There are a handful of lifetime events I decided long ago were essential in order for me to die happy, and this one just got slammed out of the park.

After making the crowd wait about three hours (except the die-hards who had been posted up outside since 7 am), The Corgan and ensemble trickled up the left side of the crowd and onto the stage, where they started up a feedback frenzy that could best be described as very fucking loud. (This is where the aforementioned tinnitus kicked in.) Corgan wore a thin, dark, long-sleeved shirt reading NATURE, which recalled his trademark ZERO shirt and made everyone feel back home in 1996. His head glistened like a well-polished agate.

They opened with “Astral Planes” off Teargarden by Kaleidyscope, and gradually the realization set in that, even considering Zeitgeist and everything after it, Billy Corgan can still write good rock music.

I didn’t quite recognize the intro to “Ava Adore” until the distant memory kicked in of a live track I had downloaded somewhere. But even fast, sloppy and stripped of electronic gloss, the song did what it was supposed to do. “Hummer” was where I pretty much lost it. See, I had latched onto “Hummer” instantaneously upon encountering it sometime in 1998, and had since attempted to learn every note of every verse, chorus and solo. (I will demonstrate if you want.) I never once thought I would have the extreme joy of hearing this song live, and from the crowd’s reaction, neither did they. Had I walked out the door and fallen down an open manhole immediately after, that would have been okay with me.

The stage show was dark, close and impressive, though it showed vague hints of Corgan’s control-freak nature. The stage lighting only rarely deviated from blood red, and even the back-and-forth stage banter revealed tiny amounts of lead singer paranoia. Billy: “We played one show in Los Angeles, and there was just a lot of talking.” Lead guitarist: “All they wanted to do was talk…” Billy: “No more talking.” When an out-of-tune string was discovered on Billy’s axe — lead guitarist: “uh-oh.” Billy: “Time to flip out…” The sarcasm was almost convincing.

“A Song for a Son” came along, and even though this was the first time I’d heard it, it had a certain familiarity to it. This could just be from the simple fact that it’s part of a history of saga-like Smashing Pumpkins anthems, or it could have to do with the Zeppelin-esque mythology from which it and others of its kind come. Either way, it was quite awesome. “Stand Inside Your Love” has always been a favorite of mine, and it lived up to expectation. And there’s no need to describe how it was standing in front of the stage while the band performed “Bullet With Butterfly Wings,” except to point out that my co-concertgoer Max (of Versa Vice) and I noticed Corgan’s complete envelopment in the song, despite its likely being the Smashing Pumpkins’ “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” His scream probably hasn’t diminished a decibel since he wrote the song. Yes, the crowd sang along.

One of the reasons SP continues to mesmerize its following is that they employ actual creativity in their songwriting. When Corgan began picking out a riff that recalled their old dreamy days, I was confused over where this mysterious secret song had come from, until I realized it was a new, sans-electronics opening to “Perfect.” The rest of that one ran as it probably did before it was drenched with effects, and we were happy.

The show seemed to run short, so to keep this review in kind, the Pumpkins ran through a fast, raw Cherub Rock to everyone’s rabid glee, then Corgan made his band have a seat while he pulled out an actual ukulele. This being the furthest thing from what I was expecting (other than pulling out a samurai sword to chop a melon), I got a quick cell phone pic. Corgan attempted to lead the crowd into singing “Love is the Sweetest Thing,” but they didn’t get it, repeatedly shouting something about tiptoeing through tulips. Before long Corgan threw in the towel on the failed singalong, saying he was “too old for this shit.” He told the crowd we didn’t deserve an encore, and he didn’t give us one. But by then everyone was too drunk and happy to care much.

I’d like to extend a huge thank-you to Julie and her husband Andy (who plays the kit for noted San Diego rock outfit Transfer, by the way), for hooking me up. There is good music karma in the wind for you.

The complete set list can be found here.

Like many people, there are songs constantly streaming in my head. They can fade in like a mist, or come crashing onto the scene like a warthog. They can drown out things like real-life conversations, or simply hang in the background while I go about my day. It’s like having a built-in music player, sans record-industry meddling. iTunes, meet iBrain. Now kindly go get iBrain a Dr. Pepper.

The thing about my iBrain, though, is it doesn’t cost anything. Not a dollar a download, not one cent a download, nothing. Even better, there’s no account to sign up for, no annoying emails to block, and no mega-corporation to decide what songs are allowed to be there. Unless you count taste. I usually let Taste, LTD pretty much do what it wants.

So here are a few of the songs that have been occupying my iBrain rotation as of late. Feel free to listen in, start your own mental download, and show the industry suits that you’ll listen to whatever you want, when you want. As long as it’s not while your boss or significant other is saying something important. That’s just bad for business.

The Vines, Autumn Shade II. Like the first one, but Craig Nichols nailed the wispy, esoteric harmonies even harder, and it survives more than three listens.

Blur, Tracy Jacks. Because that guitar part is catchier than a left-fielder with sonar. Whoa, did a sports analogy just make it onto this blog?

Radiohead, I Might Be Wrong. This riff could smash a hole in the side of your grandaddy’s barn without an ounce of remorse. I heard it even robbed a nun in broad daylight. Shame on it.

David Bowie, New Killer Star. The bassline to this song would make me punch a guy in the face, if the music video didn’t make me feel dizzy.

The Primrose League, Stealing All Those Cars. It’s not as well-known as some, but the intricate guitar work and vocal harmonies manage to find their way into your bloodstream.

The Smashing Pumpkins, Hummer. That opening solo is like a bucket of cold water on a saturday morning, but somewhat more awesome.

The Von Bondies, C’mon, C’mon. Ok, I watch TV. But screw you if you don’t appreciate 1-2-4 guitar stumming and a loud voice. At least I’m not repping Jet.

Versa Vice, It’s Clear. Another lesser-known band, but the guitar and bass are the muggers who 1-2 you to death in the alleyway behind Circle-K.

Blur, Death of a Party. I usually try to avoid dumping the same band on people twice, but the creepy vibes from this one have a tendency to linger. You just try to shake them off.

Queens of the Stone Age, Make It Wit Chu. Who knew a song titled in text speak would actually be good? Josh Homme once again demonstrates his ability to get inside your head with a piano and a guitar.

Gran Ronde, Wisdom. This short number hits the pleasing-guitar-riff quotient right on the head.