Warped: Day Two
It’s the morning of the Werewolves‘ second attempt to get noticed by the fans at Vans Warped Tour and ignored by the punks who run this gig and don’t want bands like us — mere mites upon the great seething beast of this festival — to take advantage of the abundant food backstage. Well, we foiled them this morning. Skeet and I woke before the others and made a quick sweep of the breakfast tent. Skeet went for a bagel and cream cheese while I nicked a Danish and a nectarine. We both got coffee, that most crucial of beverages.
I thought yesterday’s show went pretty well, considering Tommy (guitar) and Shifty (bass) ended up on the wrong sides of the stage and drummer Skeet ended up with an out-of-order set list. I once attempted to help Skeet pack up his drums, basically undoing the very task he’d just done of opening a drum case. My place is at the merch table. Proportionate to the number of people who saw the Werewolves play yesterday, I think we sold a healthy amount of CDs: five total, which was about a third of the crowd. Sadly, that’s not even a tank of gas, but still I felt triumphant. And the ‘wolves, as always, held back nothing as they played. They showed no signs of having driven 30 hours and hung around in the sun all day. Afterwards, they looked drained. It’s no fun being an unknown band in a huge festival, watching crowds go insane to superstar bands then playing at the end of the day when all the corporate retailers are beginning to pull down their tents. You can give out all the stickers and buttons in your box, and people still won’t give a fuck about coming to see you play.
We had the misfortune yesterday of being on a stage in the back corner of the campground, facing nothing but the mess hall and the ocean. Adding to the torture was the proximity of the all-acoustic MySpace tent, which was constantly packed full of kids actually enjoying the caterwaul of unplugged emo bands doing a VH1 Storytellers routine, one after the other. The band Gym Class Heroes, for example, doesn’t sound good even when plugged in. In fact, most of the bands on this tour suck, in my opinion. The Werewolves, with their old-school hard rock, are so much better, and I’m glad that at least a few people noticed and took interest. I saw one band yesterday, I don’t know who, all gussied up in freakish makeup that looked like glam war paint, playing hardcore screamo to an excited crowd. “This song is for anyone who’s ever had anyone they love…fucking stab them in the back!” cried the vicious, brokenhearted ass-clown singer. Each generation of songwriters writes about heartbreak; it troubles me that the one coming of age now chooses to do it in such melodramatic, godawful ways.
If you haven’t heard of Valient Thorr, it’s time for a trip to Google.
Not god awful were Helmet, Joan Jett & the Blackhearts and Valient Thorr. After the circus ended yesterday, we crashed a backstage party and met up with Luke from Left Alone, who was a big fan of the Werewolves’ previous incarnation, which played this tour numerous times, along with pretty much every major city, minor burg and unkempt hedgerow in the country. Luke’s one of those guys who could be great to know in prison because he can score just about anything. He and Skeet and I were in a long, completely motionless line for the barbecue, when suddenly Luke said, “You shouldn’t have to wait. I used to be a barbecue man,” and disappeared. Five minutes later, he returned with three hamburgers, complete with individually wrapped slices of processed cheese — slightly chilled, no less. We hung out and got drunk
for the first time on this ride, then stumbled back to the van so that a sober Nero (he’s the singer, btw, and a demon behind the wheel) could bravely drive us to Dodger Stadium, where we slept like the naked dead
in a corner of the vast parking lot, which is now partially cluttered with the tents, buses and sunburned victims of the Warped Tour, California leg.
