A Perfectly Cromulent Blog

"It's called rocking out!" - Pt. 1

Went to Mötley Crüe's cleverly named "Crüe Fest" Tuesday night - the first of many, if apparently deranged singer Vince Neil is to be believed. I attended the event with "Reality TV Wife" instead of Joni (the Metal Wife), mostly because RTVW has an in with a ticket broker and scored us the seats, which came with their own bar area (the Jack Daniels Lounge, if I'm not mistaken).

But I'm getting ahead of myself. First, we had to contend with the four opening acts at the fest, namely SIXX: A.M. (drolly referred to as "SUXX A.M." by those who referred to them at all), Trapt ("Trapped with a T," as I repeatedly stated to the annoyance of everyone around me), Papa Roach, and Buckcherry. RTVW and I don't agree on much, but we found common ground in our overwhelming lack of desire to sit through any of these performances. While debating options on our approach to the Toyota Center, we happened upon an open parking meter a block away from a bar called the BUS (two blocks from the Center). Our decision made, we went in to grab a few beers and debate when the Crüe would actually take the stage.

We were about an hour off, as it turns out.

I should digress for a moment to describe our ensembles. RTVW had, for whatever reason, decided to go with her slacks/blouse work outfit, while I elected to rock the jeans/fucking awesome Iron Maiden soccer jersey look:

Actual torso may not taper in the displayed manner

Sitting outdoors wasn't that bad for July in Houston. And for that I have to thank hurricane Dolly: you may have heaped misery upon south Texas/NE Mexico, but your outer cloud bands kept me cool while drinking, and that's what really matters.

After several beers/vodkas and much discussion about M*A*S*H-related minutiae, we decided to wander over to the Toyota Center. Security was pretty tight, which is perfectly understandable when the bulk of your audience are paunchy 40-somethings more concerned with whether the sitter is updating her MySpace page from the family PC than getting into a "rumble." Nevertheless, I allowed myself a brief frisson of nostalgia for my younger metal days, when we were hassled by "the pigs" at a Slayer concert. Happy days.

Upon arriving, RTVW went in search of food, while I scoped out our seats and got a pic of roadies striking the Papa Roach banner. Obviously we'd underestimated how long they could stretch out the "Last Resort" encore:

Killing time during a support performance goes a lot easier when you have a bar at which to seat yourself, and we could still hear strains of Buckcherry's performance drifting in from the arena, so - were we so inclined - we could've trotted out and heard instant classics like "Crazy Bitch" or "Sorry," which could go toe-to-toe with anything on Warrant's catalog for a place of honor in the Embarrassing Power Ballad Hall of Fame.

We also met a few colorful characters, including a couple guys down from Plantersville. I don't remember their names (or even if we were introduced), but one was a plumber based in Navasota, and the other was...between jobs, I think. They were metalheads from way back, however (each having graduated HS within two years of yours truly), and were only too willing to discuss their respective hellraising pasts, as well as the state of today's hard rock:

MetalHead #2: So we saw Def Leppard in San Antonio a few months ago, then drove up to Dallas to see 'em again the next night.
Pete: Did they play anything from "High 'N' Dry?"
MH #2: Uh, I don't think so. Anyway, if you ask me, the only current rock band that can come close to Leppard lyrically is Nickelback.
Pete: [chokes on beer]
MH #2: You've never heard of Nickelback?
Pete: Oh...I've heard of them.

I deflected further suspicion by remarking how often "Pour Some Sugar on Me" is played in strip clubs, which led to a studied and thoroughly exhaustive analysis on the quality of fishnet stockings in the immediate vicinity. I noted, with no little satisfaction, that my g-g-generation has few reservations about jockeying with the younger set for elite tramp status:

38-year olds, Dude.

The only other encounter of note involved an underage fellow who approached us to buy him a beer. That's not entirely accurate, for in truth he approached MetalHead #2, who immediately launched into a breakdown of his top 10 greatest teenage drinking stories. We steered him toward the bar anyway, and RTVW gently chided the kid for not knowing to approach the female in any group with such requests.

Of course, I call him a "kid" when the fucker looked/was built like Brady Quinn. I have no doubt he's a regular at the neighborhood Valero station, buying Busch tallboys for his hormonally-challenged friends with impunity. Curse your draconian one ID/one drink policy, Toyota Center.

Finally, it was time for the Crüe to take the stage. Which I'll cover in Part 2...