Flock of Seagulls
Don't ask me how I got onto the Flock of Seagulls guest list, but it happened, and you bet your ass we went. Here's a brief summary:
Worst live show I've seen in over ten years of going to shows.
Allow me to elaborate:
For starters, admission was 28 bucks. Had there been no getting in for free, I wouldn't have even considered going. Hell, I already have to take out a third mortgage on my family farm just to see the upcoming Devo reunion, there's no way I'm dropping almost thirty bucks on some has-beens with one okay song who still, decades past their fifteen minutes in the spotlight, thought twenty bucks was a fair price to charge for CDs at a live show in some dive in south Texas.
Two: No hair. Don't pretend you weren't wondering. No hair. I saw dreads, I saw a fucking braided ponytale beneath a dark brown baseball cap that wasn't advertising an actual baseball team. No hair. Even the audience forgot to make themselves up to look ridiculous. How are you supposed to get drunk and people-watch at some shitty show if everyone there is just as jaded about the experience as you are?
It was morose, to say the least, and alcohol only helped to a certain point, until the Seagulls managed to harness a power of evil anti-rock so fierce and mundane that it could bore the shit out of even the most intoxicated of club goers. I mean, no one was dancing, no one was singing along, no one was even marginallly interested - AT ALL - of what was taking place on stage. We were a unified boredom, a hive consciousness trying to fight the ghastly preformance with only our thoughts: Play "I Ran", play "I Ran", play "I Ran"...
It didn't take, and Victoria and I both decided we needed to leave before it got any worse.