November 17, 1997

I must admit to having qualms about heading to the House of Blues for a concert. Handing over cash to the kitsch Rat that is Downtown Disney isn't exactly my idea of an ideologically sound move - or a good time. But, hey, it was the Violent Femmes, right? They're about as anti-establishment a group as you can find, and if they agreed to appear there, who am to I question their choice of venue.

While hanging around looking for someone to sell me a spare ticket (and lamenting the demise of the great free market spirit of the scalper, savior of every lazy person like myself who hasn't bothered to get a ticket in advance), I began to wonder what the hell the stained glass coffins with crosses embedded in them had to do with anything. The Rat truly produces some bizarre examples of kitsch at times. Upon entering, the theme is continued. Symbols from every religion - mainstream at least - adorned the wall above the stage. Some PC attempt to appease everyone? Some type of a "the world is one" thing or what?

The beer prices were the next tourist trap nightmare. Three bucks (four really, with the tip) for a small plastic cup delivered by a surly overworked bartender. After the Embassy - definitely the coolest live venue in Orlando - the perfectly coiffed appearance of this place is distinctly soulless.

Local band My Friend Steve opened and kept the crowd entertained. It always seems to be a thankless task to open. About 99.99% of people are there for the main act, and cries of "who's this?" echo around the room, not to mention a few boos every now and again by the more churlish who are impatient for the main act.

Once again I was struck by the longevity and perennial appeal of a seemingly obscure band that formed way back in 1981. It was sobering to think that many members of the audience had not even been born then! Front man and poet (as introduced by bassist Brian Ritchie) Gordon Gano strikes a diminutive form on the stage, but once he started strumming his guitar, all hell broke loose. I even caught the sweet whiff of an illegal substance floating through the air as the first few bars struck up! A portent of things to come.

The barrage continued for almost two hours. Talk about value for money! Lifted aloft, smiling faces were portered around the audience, and even the slam dancing was not of a particularly aggressive nature - no fights that I could see. The only mishap befell the lone stage diver who chose exactly the wrong area to dive into and encountered a black hole his head was not very good at absorbing. A burly bouncer lifted him effortlessly and carted him off.

After pulling every instrument out, from a conch shell to what looked like a broom stick with a piece of string attached to it, and making the audience sweat like pigs to rid themselves of excess toxins, it all came to a satisfying end. As someone said to me on the way out, "I thought it was going to be uncool at this place, but I was wrong." The rocking night left everyone sated with their favorite songs and saturated with sweat and a good vibe. Killer concert.

Peter Lewis A true African-American, Peter has led a peripatetic lifestle, and after graduating from UCF with a film degree, he is pondering life as another wannabe, devoting his time to working on a novel, his thesis film, a suntan and the dubious benefits of Rogaine. Other Articles I've Written