Saturday 2/11/06
Love/Hate Valentine's Massacre
This show was the first time that the insanity was actually planned, though not by us. The show was originally to help a friend promote her art and new clothing line. It later merged with another event which centered around a local magazine, Exotic Underground, that covers underground music, burlesque, and other fun stuff. This is where it gets weird.
I'll run you through the night as if you walked in at about 9pm. This is assuming you even heard about it, as various factors doomed promotion efforts from the get go. Still, a bunch of people did get the message that this was the place to be on this night.
You were probably on the guest list, which was spread over three pages. After dealing with security, you are immediately greeted by magicians, stilt-walkers, and a bevy of almost naked hotties, some wearing little more than body paint. If you made it to the band room, you were catching Space Cretins, who opened up the festivities with their bitchin� brand of glam/punk.
After nearly knocking the balls out of some juggling clown's hands, you made your way to the upstairs bar, where you consumed overpriced drinks, all the while surrounded by a bunch of crazy fuckers getting their drink as well as their freak on.
You possibly left when Church Of Hate started. I saw a shitload of people enter, take one look at them, turn around and leave. Maybe they didn't like sludgy Cookie Monster metal. Perhaps the demonic imagery freaked them out. Or maybe it was all the fake blood they were covered in, which left the sink in the backstage bathroom look like someone just had an abortion in it.
If you made it through COH's set, as well as the hot burlesque sets from Go Go Amy and Inga Ing�nue, you enjoyed the pleasantly surprising Charlie Drown, and their Skunk Anansie-influenced esoteric groove metal. Unfortunately you probably didn't show them any love, as they only received polite applause, just like the other two bands.
After more burlesque from Inga, you saw the first 1234 show in 4 months. We came out of the chute like a thoroughbred on meth, and never let up. You were either up front and screaming along with every word, playing it cool somewhere in the back, or falling down drunk somewhere. Odds are you were front and center, at least part of the time. At any rate, you were pretty worn out by now from the sensory overload of the evening, and faded into the ether.
Upon leaving the club, you marveled at the astounding amount of fucking assholes that mill about Pioneer Square on any given night. Within minutes you are hit up for spare change, mocked for looking like you may be in a band, almost trampled by drunken dickheads loudly looking for whores, and almost got into at least one fight.
The next day you wondered if what you saw really did happen, or was all just a really strange dream. After cursing yourself for not bringing a camera, you told everyone you knew about your experience. These same people will say they wished they were there instead of whatever boring scene they were trapped in that night. They'll also ask why you didn't tell them about it, when in fact you pumped it up for a week prior. They'll swear to make a point of it to follow you to the next show you take in, only to punk out when the day arrives.
A few weeks later you stumble across a copy of Exotic Underground (which I now write for). Inside you find a collage of images from the evening confirming that this indeed was not a dream. You show this to all of your friends, who now are really jealous. "Why didn't you tell me it was going to be like this?" You smile, look them straight in the eye, and say "I did." You walk away, humming "Teenage Lobotomy" to yourself and wishing there was something remotely this wild going on this weekend.