Post by boots on Feb 28, 2015 11:48:25 GMT -5
Last night I died and went to hell, no wait, hell would've have been a relief what with all the gays and artists, but I digress. My wonderful and adorable husband is a Government Mule fan, I really don't know how it happened, he hates Phish, Pearl Jam, and The String Cheese Incident just as much as the next guy. But for some reason "The Mule" speaks to him.
It was like purgatory with a contact high.
Three relentless hours of incessant noodling, no lyrics, no progression, no climax. I know that this sort of guitar work enthralls you dudes for some reason, like you are witnessing a miracle, the second coming. But I don't get it. And I "get" a lot about different types of music, but this shit leaves me numb and more than just a little bit ill. Its said that when a man plays his guitar for 20 minutes and all he does is "doodlie-doot-doot-doodlie-doot-doot" over and over, that its compared to "masturbating"- I disagree, even masturbation promises a somewhat satisfying ending. Instead I think this sort of guitar playing is more akin to when the ailwives congregate beneath the waves of Lake Michigan and decide to swim for shore and prostrate themselves on the beach, dying en mass, one long silvery streak on the side of a sandy dune, tiny dead, rotting, fish carcasses. That's what last night felt like, walking on the beach with piles of stinking ailwives everywhere.
Someone needs to get out the shovel.
And don't even get me started on the crowd this type of music attracts. Oy. I'd have to kill myself or die of embarrassment if I saw anyone I knew there (but first I'd have to kill them for their own sake).
After at least 45 minutes of solid "dootlie-doot" punctuated only by what was apparently a break between "songs" and a subsequent round of applause, the house lights came up and I thought elatedly that the show was "over"- no such luck- intermission followed by another hour of no words, just noodles.
When the band came back out on stage for the encore, they elected to do an Allman Bros classic, again, not even close to being on my radar, so I have no clue what song it was, but at least there was a melody, and a few riffs, and some lyrics, I thought it wasn't half bad. But the bearded freak in front of me stood up and yelled " I didn't fucking pay forty bucks to hear the fucking Allman Bros!" and promptly grabbed his butter faced girlfriend with the hairy lip and stormed out.
Everyone else was on drugs, and I've never seen so many couples over the age of fifty making out - with tongue.
On the bright side? I wasn't the oldest, fattest, or worst dressed in the house. This crowd had those items "nailed". I've never seen so many Guatemalan neck scarves with metallic threads. Gross.
It was awesome, the things we do for the ones we love. See I could never post this on FB my husband would see it and feel bad.
The truy sad realization? I have now seen the Govt Mule as many times as I've seen Springsteen - something is wrong with that.
It was like purgatory with a contact high.
Three relentless hours of incessant noodling, no lyrics, no progression, no climax. I know that this sort of guitar work enthralls you dudes for some reason, like you are witnessing a miracle, the second coming. But I don't get it. And I "get" a lot about different types of music, but this shit leaves me numb and more than just a little bit ill. Its said that when a man plays his guitar for 20 minutes and all he does is "doodlie-doot-doot-doodlie-doot-doot" over and over, that its compared to "masturbating"- I disagree, even masturbation promises a somewhat satisfying ending. Instead I think this sort of guitar playing is more akin to when the ailwives congregate beneath the waves of Lake Michigan and decide to swim for shore and prostrate themselves on the beach, dying en mass, one long silvery streak on the side of a sandy dune, tiny dead, rotting, fish carcasses. That's what last night felt like, walking on the beach with piles of stinking ailwives everywhere.
Someone needs to get out the shovel.
And don't even get me started on the crowd this type of music attracts. Oy. I'd have to kill myself or die of embarrassment if I saw anyone I knew there (but first I'd have to kill them for their own sake).
After at least 45 minutes of solid "dootlie-doot" punctuated only by what was apparently a break between "songs" and a subsequent round of applause, the house lights came up and I thought elatedly that the show was "over"- no such luck- intermission followed by another hour of no words, just noodles.
When the band came back out on stage for the encore, they elected to do an Allman Bros classic, again, not even close to being on my radar, so I have no clue what song it was, but at least there was a melody, and a few riffs, and some lyrics, I thought it wasn't half bad. But the bearded freak in front of me stood up and yelled " I didn't fucking pay forty bucks to hear the fucking Allman Bros!" and promptly grabbed his butter faced girlfriend with the hairy lip and stormed out.
Everyone else was on drugs, and I've never seen so many couples over the age of fifty making out - with tongue.
On the bright side? I wasn't the oldest, fattest, or worst dressed in the house. This crowd had those items "nailed". I've never seen so many Guatemalan neck scarves with metallic threads. Gross.
It was awesome, the things we do for the ones we love. See I could never post this on FB my husband would see it and feel bad.
The truy sad realization? I have now seen the Govt Mule as many times as I've seen Springsteen - something is wrong with that.
