Because of the group's popularity and the fact that seating is general admission, we arrived an hour before the doors opened to stand in line outside the theater. Needless to say, it was chilly, somewhere south of freezing. Karen had her down coat on, with handwarmers inside her mittens. She would have been wise to bring some for her shoes, as he feet froze up. I had my usual cold weather garb and was fine, but I'll admit it was chilly. She approached a line thinking it might be where the line began to wait for entry, only to be sniffed at and told it was the VIP line. As would become readily apparent, VIP stood for Very Interesting Persons.
Despite this, there was some amadan larger than me almost at the head of the line wearing a short sleeved shirt and a kilt. Well, that and shoes and socks. But that was it. We stood in line for an hour, and he was there before us, so you do the math. He somewhat resembled Hamish in Braveheart, although less hirsute:
As we were standing there, another short-sleeve clad, kilt-wearing guy walked across the front of the line. This guy was short, but built like a brick house. It would appear that we were overdressed for this event.
A young woman walked up to our Hamish impersonator and told him that they were expecting Gaysian Dan to arrive any moment. A few minutes later, Gaysian Dan arrived and threw himself up Hamish, hanging from his neck. His nickname was quite apt. This came shortly after the local pirate union rep appeared with Samoan tattoos covering most of his face and some huge earring holes causing his lobes to droop almost to his shoulders walked by us with his girl toward the back of the line. Somewhere in this parade in support of the First Amendment a couple with spiked mohawks, one of which was appropriately painted green, worked their way to the back of the line. No, Toto, we weren't in Kansas anymore.
Finally, mercifully for Karen, the line began to move toward the door. Upon entry, there were two lines, so I naturally went for the shorter line, completely unaware that some people who were practicing for their future careers as TSA workers were frisking people, and each line was dedicated to either men or women. I had found the women's line and had to switch with Karen. Karen got through her line quicker as a result and watched me get frisked. Of course, I had to mug it up as if I was enjoying this. I have to remember not to do that when I go through an airport.
We made our way up to the balcony and searched for our seats. Surprisingly, my bucket fit in any seat that we chose. The problem was, instead, where to put my longer legs. We opted for seats along the main aisle in the center of the balcony, two rows back. Karen went to buy herself a shirt and I watched our seats, waiting for Karen to get back and the show to begin.
As I waited, a kid clear on the other side of the row in front of us, about five seats in from the aisle to our right, chose to step over his seat into our row and ask me to move so he could go somewhere. I moved without complaint. Then he came back, so I moved again. He kept doing this about three or four times, and I was getting annoyed. Then I thought I'd seen the kid somewhere before but couldn't place it. Then it hit me: He was missing his banjo:
Dueling Banjos jumped over his seat a couple of more times before the show started, but my scowl convinced him to try the other aisle instead.
The theater continued to fill up until finally at eight o'clock, what we thought was the opening act took the stage. Much to my dismay, it was some barefooted Brit folk singer and his silent banjo player. That, in and of itself, would have been bad enough, but when he launched into his repertoire, I was positively sickened. He began with some anti-war, anti-David Cameron, anti-royalty songs which showed middling talent. He even sang a song about fellatio, which was a little uncomfortable because a couple had brought their young teenaged daughter to see her favorite group, Flogging Molly, and had her subjected, inadvertently, to this. It brought back memories of that idiotic group at the House of Blues in Chicago who encouraged everyone to Slut Up Chicago. At least this one wasn't wearing a trenchcoat with slut written on his bar chest and electrical tape X's covering his nipples. Then he began with some anti-American song talking about a conspiracy about 9/11. I went to the bathroom; I had better things to do. Thankfully, this twit only played a half hour, but it was more than enough.
The true opening act came next, a group called The Drowning Men. Neither of us was familiar with their music and were willing to give them a try. That experiment didn't last long. The group consists of a bassist and a drummer (who was very good, by the by) dressed like lumberjacks with long sleeves and blue jeans with the cuffs upturned, sporting civil war beards --
-- the lead singer channeling a preppier Daryl Dragon --
-- and a synthesizer-mad John Phillips wannabe:
whose overkill on that darned instrument induced the need for Dramamine. There was one other musician whose contributions, from what I could tell, amounted to dancing like he'd been hit by a tazer and balancing his guitar in the palm of his hand. The music was so loud, so dense, that I never understood a word of what they sang. For all I know, these guys were brilliant. The most puzzling part of their performance, however, was the introduction of the theremin --
-- a dubious musical instrument better suited to seances. In fact, when Mr. Dragon began with the theremin I told Karen I thought I saw my recently deceased aunt rising from the mosh pit.
Neither the Brit nor The Drowning Men provoked great responses. In fact, the people seated behind us shouted to the latter that they should stop being boring.
At around ten o'clock the main show started, and boy did it start. The lead singer of Flogging Molly is quite the dynamic showman. In fact, the only thing he and the group did wrong all night was invite the Brit and The Drowning Men to open for them. Watching the mosh pit in action was a revelation. I'd seen it in film, but to see it live is another thing altogether. I found Hamish in the crowd in the front row. I never saw the mohawks or the muscled kilt. Watching the little teenaged girl dancing with glee was special. So many people knew all the words to every song and were just dancing with reckless abandon, even in the balcony, which caused it to vibrate so violently we weren't sure it would continue to support the crowd. Karen looked at me anxiously a couple of times wondering whether we'd fall any second, and I quietly gave thanks that we hadn't gotten mezzanine seats down below the overhanging balcony. The sound wasn't so great up there, and getting back to one's seat in the dark was an adventure, but listening to Flogging Molly was a highlight. Karen shouldn't have been worried; virtually any Celtic music thrills my soul.
It was another musical adventure for us. The last concert we saw was Ricky Skaggs. Now Flogging Molly. I can't wait to see what our next concert will be.
If there is one concern about these concerts, it's the bait and switch of announcing when the show begins only to delay it with interminable opening acts. Ricky Skaggs did do this, but his show featured what I consider the central reason for this: To hold the audience captive so it will spend more on concessions and paraphernalia. The doors for Flogging Molly opened at seven, yet they didn't take the stage until ten. Karen was getting a shirt come hell or high water, so to be subjected to the nauseating Brit and the unintentionally nauseating opening act that followed was completely unnecessary. Flogging Molly didn't push merchandise like Ricky Skaggs did auditioning his show for the QVC channel, but it had the same effect. There should be more forthright information as to who's appearing and what time the main act will take the stage.
Still and all, it was another great night out with my girl.
(c) 2014 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
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