I swear to God 08/08/08 was the apocalypse: public full-frontal nudity, debauchery in direct effect, and every guy I've had a crush on in the past four months all made an appearance. I wouldn't have changed it for anything in the world.
Me and my besties were in the house to celebrate The Owl Mag's third birthday. The music website of similar stature to the Tripwire with a San Francisco concentration booked two of the most notorious party bands from Oakland to come and demolish the Independent, and the task was accomplished by said fire starters all the while wearing spandex, lots of faux gold and a white blazer decorated with iridescent sequins. That was worn by a guy. Accompanied by sunglasses. Indoors.
It was a pretty epic night.
After beers from the free happy hour made their way into our bellies, we continued to pump up the alcohol content both inside and outside the venue before dashing back in to catch Hot Tub, a trio of three ladies clad in various haphazard workout clothes and stretchy materials who rap a lot about sex and jewelry. I think. The two sound twiddlers that were stationed in back as the girls bounced around the Independent's dance floor looked wicked amused about their female counterparts being complete show-offs. The accumulation of their dirty electro beats and schemes came to a head during the last song when I ended up seeing a guy's head â€“ and not the one on his shoulders. The Hot Tub girls had pulled people on stage and starting peeling off one sweaty dancing dude's clothes until his khakis got pulled down and I was free to witness his dangling member being caressed by nothing but air. I completely choked on my drink.
Then it was Wallpaper time. I've written about the specs before as well as had the honor of photographing the illustrious Ricky Reed. So why after all this time do I still fucking dance? Does this shit really not get old? Reed was in top form this night, nailing not only his auto-tuned vocals but passing out his beloved, outlandish stories about a high roller life as well as verbally abusing drummer Arjun Singh (they kissed and made up later, even after Singh got sweet-ass revenge by prancing out on stage and imitating Reed during a break). Every song seemed to swell with precision and passion, the carefully composed sex-synth rhythm coupled with hilarious, unknowing social commentary perpetuating the modest dance crowd. We sang along with opener "T-Rex" in all its genius dramatic spins of electro and snips of subtle, squiggly dance blips. I knew two seconds after a figure made his way on stage, donning the dinosaur mask from the video and saxophone in hand, things would only get better. We lifted our arms during "So Wasted" and raised our cell phones in the air during "Text Me Yr Love." I double fisted beer.
And the answer is, no, it doesn't get old. I freely admit I sing lyrics like "Every time we do it, I wanna do it again" at the top of my lungs, or that I totally adore a song about cell phone ring tones being free (thank you, "The Remix," you are my favorite). I've come each time wearing flats, and the choice has been handsomely honored for that dance opportunity alone. Dance band, joke band, satire band, not a real band, party band, electro band, awesome band - that's the fun and that's the splendor in seeing a Wallpaper show live, and suffice to say, I get the aim.
Get filled by the seed of Ricky Reed. It'll be worth it.