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Gonzo Report: Echoes of the Dead, notes of Floyd, hints of Marvin Gaye
King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard join the Symphony at The Shell
At the trolley stop, I ask Brenden Walton if he and his girlfriend Ting Goskrra are taking the trolley downtown to see King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard. When he says yes, I can’t help but ask “Why?”
He responds to my innocent (if snarky) question with a challenging “Because I like them!” I appreciate the borderline fuck-you response and decide he’s a member of my musical tribe. I explain that I’m covering the show for this column and have never heard the band before, though my friend Jesse Smith and anyone else I mention them to raves about them. I board the trolley with the couple, exchanging concert stories, including Ting’s tale of a friend having an acid-induced orgasm at a Ween gig. Their love language is concert tickets, and they bought the passes for tonight at last year’s KGLW show.
At the mention of Ween, the man seated in front of me, Reed, perks up, and I find he’s also headed to KGLW and plans to attend a festival in Colorado soon to see them again. Reed is part of the growing tribe that gradually fills the car until it empties at the Convention Center, where a short hike puts us at the entrance to The Rady Shell.
Going in completely blind to an impending musical experience is rare for me these days, and I relish it. The feeling evokes memories of my first concerts. As I approach, I see a Grateful Dead-style line of band-adjacent folks hawking their wares: paintings, stickers, and helium balloons to inhale for the buzz. I stop by a table manned by Toon, an artist selling the aforementioned goodies, and I mention the Dead vibe. He tells me that band was his gateway. Me, I never got Jerry and Company, but I’ve heard plenty of tales of their performances and of the Deadhead subculture. All I know is that the LSD got better in their wake.
As I meander, my Metallica shirt gets some comments, including one from a 10-year-old boy who says, “Justice! You’re cool!” and gives me a thumbs up. He continues to tell his dad how cool I am, and I consider it the highest form of praise. The age range runs from younger than the kid who thinks I’m cool to old enough to have traveled with The Grateful Dead. In fact, everywhere I look, I detect echoes of the Dead, especially on T-shirts. I also spot an inordinate number of flight suits, apparently (so I’m told) because the band has worn them in music videos.
Oh yes, the band. The Australian rockers are playing with The San Diego Symphony conducted by Sarah Hicks, an arrangement which means some repeat setlists. Returning fans don’t mind, and I’m clueless, so setlist.fm becomes my friend the next day when I set out to hear some songs again. There’s plenty to seek, but it’s not on Spotify because the band pulled their music from the platform in response to CEO Daniel Ek investing in military drone AI technology. The statement “Fuck Spotify” swells my heart with respect; I’ll be looking them up on Bandcamp and gladly paying for music. In their 15-year history, they’ve released 27 albums. Take that, TOOL!
For now, it’s first exposure, and I’m like a wine aficionado, detecting notes of Pink Floyd with hints of Marvin Gaye in the loose-sounding jams and tight-as-a-duck’s-ass time changes. I’m a fan within the first 20 minutes, and there’s over an hour and a half left. Wandering through the masses of dancers and headbangers existing in perfect harmony, I hit the bathroom, where I meet man named Walter who is wearing a flight suit. We chat about how the show’s just going to get heavier, and I wonder aloud if my metal itch will be scratched. He tells me that, if I like Swedish prog rockers Opeth, I’ll be happy. I’m a little amused until the show progresses into songs like “Dragon,” which does indeed remind me of Sweden’s finest — without being a rip off. An itch I didn’t even know I had hasn’t just been scratched; there’s a claw mark in my psyche. Perhaps from a winged fire breather.
I’d probably need to be riding such a beast in order to get a shirt — or any type of merch — at this show. Wendy, a volunteer at various San Diego venues, including The Old Globe, has been working shows for decades, and says she’s never seen a line like this outside of Comic-Con. Limited-edition posters seem the most prized items, and fans arrive at the venue with poster tubes to protect them. So, no shirt, but a new band to dig and a vibe that continues after the last note of “Iron Lung” fades. I get more of the song as the patrons filing out continue singing it until rapper Joe Dreamz takes over the collective consciousness. He’s standing on a lighted platform, bustling for tips and singing “Are you living Joe Dreamz,” holding the mic out for sing-along and cheers.
All the way across the expanse of the Convention Center to the trolley, people echo the musical question, some in-between hits of helium huffed from giant balloons. Dreams, after all, are magic, and sometimes best expressed in a cartoon voice.
Here's something you might be interested in.
Gonzo Report: Echoes of the Dead, notes of Floyd, hints of Marvin Gaye
King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard join the Symphony at The Shell
Gonzo Report: Echoes of the Dead, notes of Floyd, hints of Marvin Gaye
King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard join the Symphony at The Shell
At the trolley stop, I ask Brenden Walton if he and his girlfriend Ting Goskrra are taking the trolley downtown to see King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard. When he says yes, I can’t help but ask “Why?”
He responds to my innocent (if snarky) question with a challenging “Because I like them!” I appreciate the borderline fuck-you response and decide he’s a member of my musical tribe. I explain that I’m covering the show for this column and have never heard the band before, though my friend Jesse Smith and anyone else I mention them to raves about them. I board the trolley with the couple, exchanging concert stories, including Ting’s tale of a friend having an acid-induced orgasm at a Ween gig. Their love language is concert tickets, and they bought the passes for tonight at last year’s KGLW show.
At the mention of Ween, the man seated in front of me, Reed, perks up, and I find he’s also headed to KGLW and plans to attend a festival in Colorado soon to see them again. Reed is part of the growing tribe that gradually fills the car until it empties at the Convention Center, where a short hike puts us at the entrance to The Rady Shell.
Going in completely blind to an impending musical experience is rare for me these days, and I relish it. The feeling evokes memories of my first concerts. As I approach, I see a Grateful Dead-style line of band-adjacent folks hawking their wares: paintings, stickers, and helium balloons to inhale for the buzz. I stop by a table manned by Toon, an artist selling the aforementioned goodies, and I mention the Dead vibe. He tells me that band was his gateway. Me, I never got Jerry and Company, but I’ve heard plenty of tales of their performances and of the Deadhead subculture. All I know is that the LSD got better in their wake.
As I meander, my Metallica shirt gets some comments, including one from a 10-year-old boy who says, “Justice! You’re cool!” and gives me a thumbs up. He continues to tell his dad how cool I am, and I consider it the highest form of praise. The age range runs from younger than the kid who thinks I’m cool to old enough to have traveled with The Grateful Dead. In fact, everywhere I look, I detect echoes of the Dead, especially on T-shirts. I also spot an inordinate number of flight suits, apparently (so I’m told) because the band has worn them in music videos.
Oh yes, the band. The Australian rockers are playing with The San Diego Symphony conducted by Sarah Hicks, an arrangement which means some repeat setlists. Returning fans don’t mind, and I’m clueless, so setlist.fm becomes my friend the next day when I set out to hear some songs again. There’s plenty to seek, but it’s not on Spotify because the band pulled their music from the platform in response to CEO Daniel Ek investing in military drone AI technology. The statement “Fuck Spotify” swells my heart with respect; I’ll be looking them up on Bandcamp and gladly paying for music. In their 15-year history, they’ve released 27 albums. Take that, TOOL!
For now, it’s first exposure, and I’m like a wine aficionado, detecting notes of Pink Floyd with hints of Marvin Gaye in the loose-sounding jams and tight-as-a-duck’s-ass time changes. I’m a fan within the first 20 minutes, and there’s over an hour and a half left. Wandering through the masses of dancers and headbangers existing in perfect harmony, I hit the bathroom, where I meet man named Walter who is wearing a flight suit. We chat about how the show’s just going to get heavier, and I wonder aloud if my metal itch will be scratched. He tells me that, if I like Swedish prog rockers Opeth, I’ll be happy. I’m a little amused until the show progresses into songs like “Dragon,” which does indeed remind me of Sweden’s finest — without being a rip off. An itch I didn’t even know I had hasn’t just been scratched; there’s a claw mark in my psyche. Perhaps from a winged fire breather.
I’d probably need to be riding such a beast in order to get a shirt — or any type of merch — at this show. Wendy, a volunteer at various San Diego venues, including The Old Globe, has been working shows for decades, and says she’s never seen a line like this outside of Comic-Con. Limited-edition posters seem the most prized items, and fans arrive at the venue with poster tubes to protect them. So, no shirt, but a new band to dig and a vibe that continues after the last note of “Iron Lung” fades. I get more of the song as the patrons filing out continue singing it until rapper Joe Dreamz takes over the collective consciousness. He’s standing on a lighted platform, bustling for tips and singing “Are you living Joe Dreamz,” holding the mic out for sing-along and cheers.
All the way across the expanse of the Convention Center to the trolley, people echo the musical question, some in-between hits of helium huffed from giant balloons. Dreams, after all, are magic, and sometimes best expressed in a cartoon voice.
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