Last night, I saw the band of my boyfriend for the first time and it was terrif. I have seen him play about 47 times this year, as if I wanted to kiss him it meant flying on to a Warped tour stop outside Pompano Beach, but that sort of show was different it was all rappy rapper and Dibbs with his broken paw behind the record players and 77chachalillion baby kids with thumbs in their mouths and Midtown's hands in their wallets. These shows, the one last night, I mean, they are v. different.
Last night, it was me, my mom, Susie Hopper, Dan Monick, some people who are unGoogle-able, and Peter Scholtes. And a couple hundred boys who want to be rappers too, and some goth hot girls that get misty-eyed during the slow tracks of relational terrordome shiz of God Loves Ugly. My mom wanted to get there early to see Brother Ali, and stayed through all of Sean's set, despite being tired - "The last time I stayed up this late, I was giving birth to you." She liked all the songs, especially the song that where Joanna Newsom did the surprise guest beat-boxing.
You know, my mom is an understanding gal with open embrace of what the NEA calls "artist speech", but really, it was a little intense, for me, at times, ie "I am standing here, with my mother, while we watch the man I love rap to a roomful of strangers about cheating on the road with a too-young groupie and ejaculating on her stomach, and his internal debate about such." She did not blink, she would just periodically ask "Is this song about you?" "No, it's about the girl before me/ No, it's about hip hop personified as a woman" "He is referencing the "metaphorical pussy"" etc. Oh, The worn soliloquy of the rapwife. My mom, she would just smile and go back to tapping her little toy feet to the bass boom.Posted by Jessica at January 7, 2005 07:21 PM | TrackBack