It was an unbelievable, five-second turn of joyous events when David Lee Roth played Tacoma last Saturday, even if we entered the Emerald Queen Casino with trepidation. As we pulled into the parking lot, I said to my friend Kim, "We're going to be hanging out with our 'people,' you know, the people our age who act the same way we would if our lives didn't revolve around 25-year-old musicians." Since I'm an only child with no normal sibling to compare myself to, this situation always troubles me. Analytical to the point of obsession ("Can't you just enjoy things for what they are?"), I began to wonder if I was the lucky one or if they were, with their Casual Corner wardrobes and teenage kids out on the loose while Mom and Dad relived their past by going to see DLR in a Tacoma casino.
At 25, our third companion was easily the youngest person in the room, with nothing to worry about except the quick $50 hole in his pocket. Then it happened. I quadrupled my money at the dollar slot machine, walked over to the bar to buy Kim a celebratory beverage, and behind me I heard raucous laughter, the kind of outburst that signals you've been busted doing something stupid. We turned around and it was the members of Alien Crime Syndicate, laughing at us while attempting to win enough money to buy tickets to the show. Immediately drummer Nabil Ayers raised his arms and whooped in triumph because he'd just risked the band's merch money on the roulette table and won. That instant, a guy walked up and said he was trying to sell three fifth-row VIP tickets to the show. Money and tickets were exchanged, and our seventh-row seats became slightly less bragworthy. The show, of course, was amazing--DLR began with "Hot for Teacher" and ended two hours later with "Ain't Talkin' 'Bout Love" and "Jump," saving the most athletically demanding song for last and performing it with grace.
All the way home we dodged drunk drivers and discussed how great it was to see "our people" so unrestrained in their happiness. We arrived unscathed at the Cha Cha and learned that a friend had been rushed to the hospital. We got back in the car to head to Harborview, but not before stopping to gas up at Texaco on Broadway. It was now 1:30 a.m. and every drunk in the world was pulling in this way and that way in attempt to buy beer before 2:00 a.m. Two policemen sat in their cars, hollering at people but not getting out. By the time we made it to Harborview, I was so freaked by the drunks that I couldn't speak. We were told our friend was not there but at Swedish; we tried to leave, but a policeman at the exit said the area was cordoned off because a hit-and-run suspect was "at large." I've hit the wall with drunk drivers, especially after the awful accident last week in Portland that killed one and critically injured another member of Spooky Dance Band. They were riding bikes that a drunk dragged under his van for 800 feet.
So that's why I didn't make it to see America's Sweethearts at the Crocodile on Sunday night, but I'm sure their tribute to Hole was energetic despite the little shit from Oly who didn't want to use their excellent name because I'd been the one to come up with it. Enjoy life and be glad you're having fun doing so, you twerp.
And finally, Dave Hernandez is now in the Shins. What will happen with Broadcast Oblivion is unknown.
