reprinted from Wig Wam Bam #92 October 2009
WEEN @ Sunshine Theater 9/5/09
submitted by Black Cat Danger
“Derelict as fuck,” is how my man tonight describes the teeming fans lined up for Ween: More than a few chicks in dreg spumoni colors, plenty men wearing t-shirts for the eleventh consecutive day. And my boy, himself in tatters and natural ermine musk, seeming to me like their King.
King takes me out for a beer and offers me a fat cap and stem from some crushed tinfoil. I’ve never really thought of myself as a tripper, but I always seem to be taking a space walk in these write-ups, que no?
At the Tap Room, converse with a pretty, medium-young couple down from Chimayo--he’s the newspaper editor for a town around there. These kids are dressed in patterns to split your eardrums. King shares his riches with them, too--he’s the generous kind-- and we all choke back our spores with $5 beers. No opening band, we depart to the Sunshine presently. And tripping pretty fucking hard moments after that.
Was excited to see Ween, but I must admit, friends, the last time I was paying attention was circa Chocolate and Cheese--which was the soundtrack to more than one night wasted off Mickey’s and the afterburn of last night’s ecstasy, rolling down Decatur St. in N.O.L.A. So, um, that was way back in the day.
Hard to say what I was expecting--but not a rock show such as this. “Deaner has a guitar that’ll saw you in fucking half,” says King, and he is so right. Yeah, I guess kind of cool to hear HIV, What Deaner Was Talking About, etc. etc. But, formal songs just confinement for such a master as Dean Ween. Only useful for refracting his talent into 1001 genres--country, metal, helium-electro, etc., etc. Their performance of Buckingham Green leaving an impression. And With My Own Bare Hands.
About halfway through the show, finally return close enough to this planet earth to move to the stage. All is mellow, but vortices of dance seizure break out without warning. Hard to get a line on these Ween fans.
From behind me, I hear my man screaming his request: “'Diarrhea!' Albuquerque loves 'Diarrhea!'” And I look at him and think--“Oh my G-d. I’m in love with this man.” Which is true, I have been realizing. G-d help me.
A thrilling three hour show trails off into some boring sludge and then annoying Phish-sounding shit. I go upstairs, and there’s a ten year old girl bravely enduring the fawning attentions of all the chicks tripping balls in line for the bathroom.
“What’s your favorite Ween song?” the woman standing behind her wants to know. The little girl fastens her eyes on her feet. The woman asks a few more times, kindly, but intensely, the way trippers do. With no answer, she finally dials it down. But then the little girl looks up with a shy smile and whispers her answer in the tripping chick’s ear. Chick beams back approvingly “Right on! Yeah, I love that one!”
After the show we find Ween at the Atomic. I was like, “That was killer,” and Dean was kind of a dick. But, whatever, it’s cool. That show worth $30 and then some. And then, you know, got to go home with my man, King of G-d Knows. But definitely a leader, a ruler, a friend to his subjects; feeling quite high to count myself among them.