By Siran Babayan
Standing in the shower, thinking, what better way for my friends and I to spend the day than on our feet for over 12 hours surrounded by piss, puke, smoke, booze and the biggest douchenozzles in douchebaggery, with only a glimmer of hope of seeing a fully reformed Jane's Addiction. Wanting a repeat of October's surprise, who-do-I-have-to-blow-to-get-into show at La Cita in downtown, Jane's Addiction once again had the blogosphere in a frenzy over news of another last minute, intimate gig, this one at El Cid in Silver Lake. And once again, as secret shows go, the question remained whether it would even be open to the public. “It's for friends and family only,” warned one fan site. “No one, I repeat, no one will be getting in on ticket sales.” Still, this was a reunited Jane's, “bread and spread in Los Angeles,” with original bassist Eric Avery and all. So with blessings from understanding bosses, we threw caution to the wind. No favors were owed, no strings were pulled. We simply decided to wait in line the way our forefathers did, which either makes us total schmucks or gluttons for punishment.
The first of my three-man team to arrive around noon, I take my place in line, which was only about 15 to 20 people strong. Just a few beach chairs, blankets and Sudoku puzzles. Of course, this was the calm before the storm, which manifested into a block party of shared bongs, flowing vodka and the most inane conversations about dude this and dude that, this has given me a new lease on life, and my girlfriend is getting her hair cut by Dave Navarro's hairstylist next Tuesday. (Head Douchenozzle from Woodland Hills, he of the imaginary connections, kept nodding off, threw up and had to nap in his car, all because he peeked to soon). If that weren't entertaining enough, we had our very own Naked Cowboy of the West, or Silver Lake's biggest nut, who trolled up and down the street shirtless, dressed in a jeweled straw hat and Daisy Dukes, and pushing a stroller with a black puppy he called Oprah (dude, she can buy you and sell you). “Ice cold beer $3,” he offered. “Ice cold beer and condoms. Ice cold beer, condoms and backstage passes. You're gonna get laid and I'm gonna get paid.”
Once the sun started to set, mob mentality kicked in; no more calling friends, no more cutting in line. Wouldn't have mattered. El Cid's beefy doorman emerged to tell us that only 70 wristbands would be distributed. The karmic gods were on our side. At eight o'clock, we were finally ushered into the restaurant, then corralled into the courtyard like pigs. But this was not Zen. After another three hours of standing and waiting and a complimentary pre-gig burlesque show — club land's equivalent of Pinkberry; make 'em stop! — Jane's hit the stage, which was decorated with red Christmas lights, feather boas and a conveniently placed Pope doll giving everyone his blessing.
Dave was his usual inked, shirtless self; Perry Farrell in studs and all black; Stephen Perkins sporting a faded mohawk; and Avery, fully concentrated and staring only at the wall. (Imagine if he had passed the audition and joined Metallica.) Nary a word was spoken between the four, which left Perry to be the ringmaster. He spouted his usual hippy dippy, cosmic shit, calling L.A. the best music city in the world and recounting a story about meeting Bono at Club Lingerie. “He's a humanitarian, leave him alone,” he joked.
The set list consisted of equal parts Jane's Addiction, Nothing's Shocking and Ritual de lo Habitual. It only took the first bass line of “Mountain Song” for all hell to break loose. Same goes for “Ain't No Right.” The same guys who were so drunkenly pleasant outside had us ping-ponging back and forth and sideways between sweaty bodies and the wall. We simultaneously yelled back “goddamn radio” during “Stop” and softly sang “you take the high road, and I'll take the low” on “Chip Away,” the night's thunderous finale, which had both Dave and Stephen dueling on the skins.
Stepping on discarded jackets and rolling beer bottles, we tripped away into the night. This would make a nice story for the grandkids someday.
Standing in the Shower…Thinking
Ain't No Right
No One's Leaving
Then She Did
Had a Dad
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