Diamond Yard Dogs
I want to like the Yard Dogs Road Show. They have style to spare, all sepia-toned and ragtime-chic. They have burlesque dancers so pretty that they make me feel a little bad about myself when I look in the mirror. They have a sword swallower and a confetti cannon. They have some sort of gothic bellydancer of the tribal-plus-pop-and-lock school. There's a guitar player with an enormous ZZ Top beard. They have slick videos. They have a singer dressed like a cross between a train-hopping hobo and David Bowie - a HoBowie.
You will notice that I haven't said a thing about the music. This is because I don't think that the Yard Dogs Road show is about the music at all. There's music, sure, but only as a supporting element of the overarching stylistic statement. I'm not about to knock a band for choosing style over substance, especially not after I've spent so much money at Five and Diamond. The Yard Dogs Road show fashion meme is clearly contagious: the audience was a sea of slouchy pork pie hats, little vintage hats with net veils, fake flowers in (genuine and fake) dreadlocks, full-sleeve tattoos, 00 gauge earrings, fingerless gloves, shoulder holsters, striped bloomers, layers of petticoats and hitched up skirts, sock garters, and skinny plaid pants.
There they were: a thousand times more professional than my dear Hubba Hubba Revue, with a vast and devoted following that sold out the Fillmore and blocked my view of the stage with their headwear, clever, good-looking, hard-working people reaping the fruits of their labor, and all that I could think of was that I would rather be at the DNA. Now, I can't lay the blame entirely on the band. Sometimes I forget that I hate the Fillmore. I have to go there and pay $30 for a $22 ticket (thanks Ticketmaster!), shell out $6.50 for a watery beer, get ordered around by the venue's staff (stand there! don't stand there!), trip over knee-high children, and get grabbed by random patrons who presumably think they're being charming in order to remind myself of what a joyless experience a show at the Fillmore can be.
I think that I managed to hold out until the very last act, but as soon as the applause started, I fled, my dear readers. I ran right to the DNA Lounge. I want to like you, Yard Dogs Road Show. I bet that I'd like you better if you played somewhere else.
You will notice that I haven't said a thing about the music. This is because I don't think that the Yard Dogs Road show is about the music at all. There's music, sure, but only as a supporting element of the overarching stylistic statement. I'm not about to knock a band for choosing style over substance, especially not after I've spent so much money at Five and Diamond. The Yard Dogs Road show fashion meme is clearly contagious: the audience was a sea of slouchy pork pie hats, little vintage hats with net veils, fake flowers in (genuine and fake) dreadlocks, full-sleeve tattoos, 00 gauge earrings, fingerless gloves, shoulder holsters, striped bloomers, layers of petticoats and hitched up skirts, sock garters, and skinny plaid pants.
There they were: a thousand times more professional than my dear Hubba Hubba Revue, with a vast and devoted following that sold out the Fillmore and blocked my view of the stage with their headwear, clever, good-looking, hard-working people reaping the fruits of their labor, and all that I could think of was that I would rather be at the DNA. Now, I can't lay the blame entirely on the band. Sometimes I forget that I hate the Fillmore. I have to go there and pay $30 for a $22 ticket (thanks Ticketmaster!), shell out $6.50 for a watery beer, get ordered around by the venue's staff (stand there! don't stand there!), trip over knee-high children, and get grabbed by random patrons who presumably think they're being charming in order to remind myself of what a joyless experience a show at the Fillmore can be.
I think that I managed to hold out until the very last act, but as soon as the applause started, I fled, my dear readers. I ran right to the DNA Lounge. I want to like you, Yard Dogs Road Show. I bet that I'd like you better if you played somewhere else.