Fond Memories:
I woke up this morning with "You can't say anything wrong about music!" scrawled in thick black ink over my entire left arm and the charred smell of a bridge burnt between the Kings of Leon and I still searing my nostrils. I was vaguely aware that the band might even try to run me down like a mongrel dog in their tour bus, for if the good people of Boulder associate my inarticulate depravities with the Followill boys then they will no longer be welcome in that fair city. How had things spiralled so violently out of control? Was it the music? Was it the whiskey and the drugs? Had Boulder's hipness reached critical mass and imploded under its own weight like a dying sun, sucking the last bit of humanity from my body? Yes, yes, and yes. Follow me, gentle reader, as I try to piece together that night.
I arrived in Boulder 30 minutes later and a pint of Jim Beam lighter than I'd expected. As time was of the essence, I deposited my car across the first curb I found, put a sacrificial pint in my front pocket to appease the bouncers and tucked my reserve fifth safely away. Hydra-headed confusion awaited me at the box-office. My wallet was MIA and my tickets were will call, but after some haggling, wheedling, cajoling, cursing in Arabic, some inspired air-guitar, and an impromptu a-capella rendition of "Cop Killa", the ticket mistress saw fit to put me in the balcony amidst the age-handicapped. The poor bastards had thirst in their downcast eyes and ridiculous mesh trucker caps on their heads, so I treated them to a round of whiskey shots. After this display of solidarity, joints of dagga were passed and one generous soul slipped me an upper and a thin rail. Flags and bras were burned, a midget did cartwheels along the railing, fortunes were won and lost with rock-paper-scissors, someone puked, and JET came onstage. JET, who were relatively unknown at the time, put on a good show and as Matthew Followill later said, "Added at least 10% more rock to their cock." Things were shaping up nicely.
When Kings of Leon finally took the stage I was finished with my fifth of Beam and fucking ready to fucking rock motherfucker. During "Red Morning Light" my full body banging and tone-deaf sing-a-long were mistaken for a violent fit of epilepsy and I was held to the ground while a grim young woman tried to shove her high-heel into my mouth. After she was quite through I explained to her my heroic capability for rocking the fuck out and she fell to my feet in kowtow. What a show.
At this point the show was over but I wasn't finished by damn sight so I got to talking to one of the security guards. Apparently the Kings' bus was parked just in front of the venue. I twirled my handlebar mustache in a dastardly fashion, mwahahaha, I had the funhouse mirror reflection of a plan. Two aspiring young groupies were waiting outside of the bus and I went over to make chit-chat. Soon enough Nacho (a Followill relative) stepped off the bus. I introduced myself as Dan from Spin Magazine (note: I am in no way affiliated with Spin magazine), and that we wanted to do a feature on the Kings. Without even the request for some form of identification, I was let on the bus (to be fair, I am often mistaken for someone of importance and have gotten into stranger and more confidential situations than this). The Followills know how to travel. The bus was stocked with Heinekin, dagga, and good people, and I was soon enjoying the life of a rock-magazine correspondent.
Next installment: Things Go From Good to Bad, and from Bad to Slap-Happy Kung Fu.
I woke up this morning with "You can't say anything wrong about music!" scrawled in thick black ink over my entire left arm and the charred smell of a bridge burnt between the Kings of Leon and I still searing my nostrils. I was vaguely aware that the band might even try to run me down like a mongrel dog in their tour bus, for if the good people of Boulder associate my inarticulate depravities with the Followill boys then they will no longer be welcome in that fair city. How had things spiralled so violently out of control? Was it the music? Was it the whiskey and the drugs? Had Boulder's hipness reached critical mass and imploded under its own weight like a dying sun, sucking the last bit of humanity from my body? Yes, yes, and yes. Follow me, gentle reader, as I try to piece together that night.
I arrived in Boulder 30 minutes later and a pint of Jim Beam lighter than I'd expected. As time was of the essence, I deposited my car across the first curb I found, put a sacrificial pint in my front pocket to appease the bouncers and tucked my reserve fifth safely away. Hydra-headed confusion awaited me at the box-office. My wallet was MIA and my tickets were will call, but after some haggling, wheedling, cajoling, cursing in Arabic, some inspired air-guitar, and an impromptu a-capella rendition of "Cop Killa", the ticket mistress saw fit to put me in the balcony amidst the age-handicapped. The poor bastards had thirst in their downcast eyes and ridiculous mesh trucker caps on their heads, so I treated them to a round of whiskey shots. After this display of solidarity, joints of dagga were passed and one generous soul slipped me an upper and a thin rail. Flags and bras were burned, a midget did cartwheels along the railing, fortunes were won and lost with rock-paper-scissors, someone puked, and JET came onstage. JET, who were relatively unknown at the time, put on a good show and as Matthew Followill later said, "Added at least 10% more rock to their cock." Things were shaping up nicely.
When Kings of Leon finally took the stage I was finished with my fifth of Beam and fucking ready to fucking rock motherfucker. During "Red Morning Light" my full body banging and tone-deaf sing-a-long were mistaken for a violent fit of epilepsy and I was held to the ground while a grim young woman tried to shove her high-heel into my mouth. After she was quite through I explained to her my heroic capability for rocking the fuck out and she fell to my feet in kowtow. What a show.
At this point the show was over but I wasn't finished by damn sight so I got to talking to one of the security guards. Apparently the Kings' bus was parked just in front of the venue. I twirled my handlebar mustache in a dastardly fashion, mwahahaha, I had the funhouse mirror reflection of a plan. Two aspiring young groupies were waiting outside of the bus and I went over to make chit-chat. Soon enough Nacho (a Followill relative) stepped off the bus. I introduced myself as Dan from Spin Magazine (note: I am in no way affiliated with Spin magazine), and that we wanted to do a feature on the Kings. Without even the request for some form of identification, I was let on the bus (to be fair, I am often mistaken for someone of importance and have gotten into stranger and more confidential situations than this). The Followills know how to travel. The bus was stocked with Heinekin, dagga, and good people, and I was soon enjoying the life of a rock-magazine correspondent.
Next installment: Things Go From Good to Bad, and from Bad to Slap-Happy Kung Fu.