shelbinator.com

There is no Primus anymore, technically speaking. There is no Phish anymore, either. To the fans of these innovative and inspirational bands, there is no justice in this state of affairs. But the real injustice is the way the diaspora of one tribe has become the destruction of the other.

The collaboration between Les Claypool of Primus — by far the most amazing bass player ever to grace God’s creation — and Trey Anastasio of Phish — some stinking hippie in a band of hippies that could pluck him some strings okay — was at once a brilliant and tragic event in the music world. As Primus began to break apart, Claypool had a side project known as The Holy Mackerel, and while impressive, it was still very Primus-esque in its musical genetics. Working with a stoned, patchouli-soaked wookie from Phish took Claypool in a completely new and coma-inducing direction, and inasmuch as this was a new sound, it was a brilliant thing.

But it was also about the worst thing ever to happen to the hundreds of thousands of Claypool fans, like yours truly, who had grown set in their ways about what to expect from a Primus concert, and, more importantly, who went to see Les Claypool perform to see Les Claypool perform, and not to lose themselves in a THC-assisted arm-waving dreadlock-shaking hippie-dancing stupor that should be reserved for the privacy of one’s bedroom and perhaps the occasional concentration camp. Last year ’round this time, I showed up at a Les Claypool concert and quickly noticed that something was amiss: the audience was much, much different than I remembered, and I was also quickly getting high from second-hand reefer. The hippies had heard something I hadn’t, namely that Trey Anastasio would be making an appearance at this show even though it was a Les Claypool and the Flying Frog Brigade tour, not an Oysterhead tour (they save that kind of crap for Bonnaroo, where white guys with dreadlocks and fat girls in scrunchy skirts and white tank tops are more than welcome). They descended upon the Claypool tour like God’s plague of locusts upon Egypt, their pot smoke and retarded dance moves choking out any possibility of a decent learning experience for the truly devoted bass players in the audience.

Truly, though, the more appropriate biblical analogy is that I am like a Canaanite under the onslaught of an exodus of Israelites, and my land is no longer my own, because last night the same herbitosis crew showed up at Variety Playhouse for this year’s concert. Freed from the Pharoah of Phish, thousands upon thousands of dirty stinking hippies have nothing better to do than show up at Les Claypool shows in the hopes of seeing some evidence of their messiah, and in the meantime polluting an otherwise awe-inspiring show with their clouds of herb and misplaced, Poisson-distributed shouts of “Primus sucks!” because they heard that’s what you’re supposed to say. Oh, right, and the fat hanging over scrunchy skirts. (And that goes for the dreadlocked dudes, too.)

What I really want to understand (no, not really, I’d much rather beat it out of the realm of contemplation with a tire iron) is why the entire non-smoking facility is soaked to the gills with reefer madness while the law-abiding tobacco addicts abide by the requirements that they retire to the Smokers’ Alley out the side door. Breaking one law ain’t enough for Dirty Stinking Hippies, they gotta go for the twofer? Honestly.

I wonder if I’ll have to report this concert on my next SF86 under Drug History. Dirty stinking hippies.