The Sunset Strips Darwinian cluster of neon-signed rock clubs clamors for attention like the teased-hair, high-heeled souls they attract. Amidst the tangled clatter of liquor stores, advertisements, and Ed Hardy addicts, the stretch is overpopulated with polished cars driving too fast towards an escapist ecstasy too far removed from the economic realities of the time and place theyre taking advantage of. This place is our motive manifest destiny; the pinnacle of the American fantasy made metallic; the mile where excess was once a virtue and now a nostalgic enterprise. Even better, its St. Patricks Day: The best Tuesday in rock n roll, Skid Row frontman Johnny Solinger would later exclaim, The only Tuesday in rock n roll!
The Key Clubs exterior is clean, chrome, and collared: the preppy cousin of more storied hard rock establishments like The Whiskey, the Roxy, Pandoras Box, or London Fog. Once upon a time, it was Gazzaris: a tooth-and-nail breeding ground for legendary bands like Buffalo Springfield, The Doors, and Van Halen. Now under new management, its a spit-polished, multi-level showcase for national acts looking to pick up a sponsor, land a deal, or get laid. Tonights lineup drew an especially eclectic audience: new school rockers with baggy jeans, braided goatees, and gym memberships standing side-by-side with crow-footed purple-heart strip veterans. The originals. The ones that, to this day, proudly wear moth-bitten Dio tour t-shirts, leather cowboy hats, and mesh tank tops to the grocery store without any hint of Echo Park irony. There were zealots and skeptics, predators and prey, plunging necklines and receding hairlines. There was wild diversity in our ranks, but the bar united us, one and all.
Thats not to say that Ambush, a young throwback party metal band, didnt draw the faithful down to the floor to bob their heads, pump their fists, and spill their screwdrivers. The crowd was thin but engaged as the four-piece outfit, dressing the part their forebears used to play, hopped about the stage, instruments akimbo, rallying the troops with a four-part chanted chorus of Hey! Fuck you! These were Reagan-babies relishing the post-modern pomp and circumstance that the headliner had immortalized over a decade ago. Everything from the singers leather-pants to the lead guitarists pointy axe cried, Lets build a time machine! But we couldnt. We could only drink more.
Maybe thats why when AM Obscene took the stage, the singers first order of business was to inquire, Is everyone drunk yet? as if to gauge how his bands performance would go over. Based on the slurry feedback from the expanding crowd, the answer was very well. Crunching out palm-muted power ballads and angsty, nu-metal rehashes, AM Obscene embraced modernity more than Ambush, but whereas the former self-wittingly reveled in theatrics, the latter desired to be taken seriously, P.O.D.-style. Both bands dispensed tight riffs and solid performances, but after Obscene left the stage, the forces of audience intoxication, testosterone, and cleavage had converged to create the perfect environment for The Stranger Things to take over.
Even on its own, the singer of The Stranger Things vibrato — a forceful high-tension wire — couldve shaken the crowd to its knees, let alone the bands extended solos, epic crescendos, and soft/loud dynamics that sounded like Creed got into bed with Iron Maiden. Somehow, it worked. Crashing Downs” sludgy riffing and thick bass line propelled the audience to heights unseen, while closing number These Wings brought the mood down with its heroic, if cloying, refrain. These boys loved paradox.
By the time Stranger Things lyrical hands had grown too heavy to rock any longer, the crowd had grown restless. Forty-somethings were making out. Hair gel was riding the sweat train down many a thick neck. And just after offering a cup of water to a gentleman vomiting in the bathrooms urinal, I heard the faint echo of a pre-recorded Star Spangled Banner permeating the bathroom walls and ceiling. Is that Skid Row? The man asked, his puffy eyeballs roaming as if suspended in water or following the path of a firefly. I nodded. With a deep, redemptive breath, he stood, wiped his mouth, and stumbled towards the door muttering haphazard profanity at nothing whatsoever. He had waited a long time for this moment.
I caught the last few bars of the Banner and set up shop against a sturdy beam to take in the spectacle. Between my eyes and stage, every hand in the room held the shape of iconic devils horns, peace signs, or more likely, digital cameras. There were more LCD screens than eyes, more intercepted experiences than real ones, and more emphasis on preserving the moment than actually enjoying it. Hooray for posterity.
As Skid Row took the stage with choreographed bravado, guitarist Scotti Hill contorting his face into vaguely badass expressions with every cocksure step he made. These were true professionals doing what they did best. Big Guns, a track off their self-titled debut, exploded out of the gate with its glorious pun on weaponry and female anatomy, and then was followed by barnburner New Generation and fan-favorite Piece of Me. I didnt know these songs, but I appreciated the bands penchant for repeatedly chanting the songs title in each chorus. It really helped write this review. Solingers charisma was in full force as he incited the crowd to Get drunk, Skip work, and Get in trouble between songs; these sentiments, however, were quickly turned back to reality when second guitarist Dave The Snake Sabo graciously thanked us for coming in these especially hard times.
After executing their biggest hits 18 & Life and Monkey Business to much fanfare, the Row rattled off a dozen or so more tunes: some old, some new. Solinger made it a point to remind everyone that it was his mission to bring it old school, a sentiment well received by seasoned head-bangers and rookies alike. Whether they were wearing Linkin Park shirts or leopard print spandex, everyone was hell-bent on turning back the clocks to a simpler time, a time when STDs were old wives tales and coke was a harmless pastime enjoyed by man and baby alike. Through the music and through the costumes, they embodied escape and retreated from the plugged-in, tuned-in, hollowed-out artificial edifice of modern-day America. We ran in place, but what a glorious inertia it was.
