Just Shoot M-ow

I was in San Francisco recently and while I was there I saw Ryan Adams at the Palace of Fine Arts. The stage was candlelit, a grand piano stage right, a single microphone stand stage left, a bohemian living room at center, complete with a glass of red wine, a framed photograph of Jerry Garcia, and a velvet loveseat in front of which his three guitars sat like wallflowers waiting to be picked up and taken for a spin.

Pretentious, sort of, but it did set an intimate mood and sort of matched the venue. Ryan came out and sat at the piano, fumbling to light his cigarette, wincing in the low light and asking for it to be set to red, same as the place he just left, mumbling always mumbling about the perils of being left alone in San Francisco all afternoon.

Im always torn when I see someone brilliant, possibly at a creative peak, so in love with getting high. Some fans revel in it, whooping and cheering the artist on, looking forward to saying I saw him when, hoping it will be like saying you saw Janis with her bottle of Southern Comfort. They buy their tickets like greedy speculative investors, hoping theyre buying Apple and its 1980 all over again.

Me, I just feel sort of singed by the white heat of it all. Art and addiction: its pretty to look at for a time, before you start seeing spots in your eyes.

And then he started mumbling again, charming everyone including me, smoking cigarettes, forgetting them, shuffling over to his wallflowers and making them sing. All amazing talent and self-deprecation, joking this is a song about god Im so lame wah wah my life sucks, another relationship I couldnt make work, oh man I want to kill myself.

He was funny and petulant and pissy and rockstarish and real all together. And he played (and talked) for hours. And then went back stage and got high and brought out Phil Lesh and that Dead drummer whose name I always forget and jammed in a purple haze for another half an hour at least. I guess the tortured songwriter lasts only so long and then you need to go all fuzzy electric. Besides being exhausted because I was still on east coast time, and the fact that all of a sudden goofyass Dead fans came out of the woodwork and assaulted my vision by wiggling their squishy t-shirt clad bodies around like gummy worms as only the whitest Cali college boys can, it was a pretty good show.

That is besides the opening act, Jamie Mallon.

-You saw Bryan Adams and Jimmy Fallon???!!!!

-No, Ryan Adams and Jamie Mallon.

-Oh. Who the hell are they?

Let me tell you about Jamie Mallon. Jamie is this slightly funny Italian guy from Queens with a Keith Richards circa 1969 haircut thats all wrong for his face (Look, Jamie I know its a cool indy rocker haircut right now but you have a Mediterranean nose just like me. I got over the fact that I cant pull off Bettie Page bangs, now its your turn to face reality and let your forehead show. Make the world a prettier place.), a leather jacket, and an acoustic guitar. Formerly in some minorly famous punk rock band back in the day (you google it, I dont have the time), hes gone all indy singer/songwriter and is best buddies with Mr. Adams.

He also sorta sucks.

The songs themselves are semi-tolerable, but his voice: not good. He has this really affected way of singing like if The Boss sang Counting Crows songs. Fake raspy semi-southern thing. It gave me THE SHIVERS. And I didnt think it could get much worse I mean the audience was tittering with laughter - until he started to channel Jack McFarlane of Will & Grace channeling Cher when he ended the night with a cover of The Flaming Lips Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots.

Imagine if you will someone singing in an exaggerated Bruce Springsteen style and changing the last syllable of each line to OW.

Her name is Yoshim-OW

Shes a black belt in karat-OW
Working for the cit-OW

She has to discipline her bod-OW

Oh Yoshim-OW
They don't believe m-OW

Ow, indeed.