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Gonzo Report: Sparks sparks joy at The Magnolia
Musical Quirk with a capital Q
Security stops my buddy as he attempts to enter The Magnolia in El Cajon. Whatever is in his pocket has set the metal detector beeping. He calls it a nail file. Security calls it a knife. Drummer Mark loses the argument, and tosses the knife in a planter to be retrieved later. We’re here to see experimental pop-rock duo Sparks, and the chances of anyone getting hurt by his “weapon” are minimal, but rules are rules. They’re posted right there at the entrance: number one is “have fun.” We're nothing if not compliant, and the hiccup doesn't do much to dampen the mood, which is bordering on the carnivalesque.
I spot two people dressed as tonight's performers: one sports Russell Mael’s trademark zany suit, the other is dressed in black and giving a good imitation of his brother Ron’s stone-faced scowl. Drummer Mark heads to the merch booth to get a shirt, while I approach the faux band for an interview. But I never get it, because there’s a kid — a tall kid, I’m guessing high school age — wearing a Sparks T-shirt that looks like it actually hails from the '70s. I was right about the kid, wrong about the shirt. His name is Travis, he's 17, and the shirt isn’t vintage, but created recently by his mother. He is a lucky kid.
As we chat, a man with piercing blue eyes is paying attention, listening and moving in when there’s space. His name is Mark. I'll call him England Mark, because that’s where he’s from. I estimate his age at mid-sixties, based on his claim that discovered Sparks in 1976 when he was in high school. Like most good stories, it begins with a girl who had an album and let him borrow it. The first time he saw them was shortly after that in his home country.
I ask England Mark to say “Iron Maiden,” and add his iteration to my mental collection of that name rendered with assorted accents. Then we start swapping mythologies. He’s seen shows at what was once The Hammersmith Odeon, which remains the venue’s name to him despite later changes proposed by the management. Much like the Great Western Forum will never be the fucking Kia Forum to me. England Mark marvels at my tales of the Hollywood Bowl, and I feel a combination of envy and happiness for him that he’s attended gigs at The Royal Albert Hall. He’s here because he wanted to see a North American show, and this looked to be the most interesting venue. I ask him his impression of San Diego. He loves the weather, but says he hasn’t tried Mexican food yet, concerned about the spiciness. Later, I will regret not purchasing him some of the carne asada that is being grilled right next to us.
In the lobby, I’m stopped by a guy named Russell — Russell 2.0, for the purpose of this article — who offers me stickers depicting the Mael brothers as animals. His Japanese Sparks tour shirt is a souvenir from his recent trip there to see them. He became a diehard fan via YouTube around 10 years back, half his lifetime ago. He brings up actively listening to the Sparks vinyl he owns as a complete piece of art, and I feel a kinship as he scurries off to pass out more stickers.
I head to my seat as the lights go out and Sparks takes the stage with “So May We Start?” Russell 2.0 is delayed getting to his seat up front. Perhaps a bad wi-fi connection hampers his access to the ticket, and I find my anxiety increasing via concert co-dependence. He finally gets admitted, and I’m relieved enough to become immersed in the world of Sparks.
It’s musical Quirk with a capital Q, featuring lyrics that are insightful, satirical and straight smart–assed. There’s a band raised on a platform behind them, but the main stage is left to the Mael brothers: Russell in his loud suits — his body imbued with hyperactivity that seems to feed his multiple-octave vocal range — and Ron with the perpetual scowl at the keyboards. It’s madness, but with tongue firmly in cheek. Watching Ron glare at his brother as if he’s being pestered is enduringly hilarious, and when he stands to do what appears to be a modified Charleston for a few seconds, the crowd erupts. They erupt again when he does the spoken word section of “Suburban Homeboy.” Then they lose all restraint toward the end of the set, when fan favorites “The Number One Song in Heaven” and “Whippings and Apologies” show up. The crowd, which has been standing still up until now, cannot help but begin to dance.
When the lights come up, there’s a look of unadulterated joy on many faces. Drummer Mark makes a half-hearted attempt to locate his penknife before we walk through the concourse, past the police station, to our cars. I know El Cajon issues tickets for the cigarette I’m smoking, but fuck it. If they bug me, I’ll dance and say, “Please Don’t Fuck Up My World.” Tongue firmly in cheek.
Here's something you might be interested in.
Gonzo Report: Sparks sparks joy at The Magnolia
Musical Quirk with a capital Q
Gonzo Report: Sparks sparks joy at The Magnolia
Musical Quirk with a capital Q
Security stops my buddy as he attempts to enter The Magnolia in El Cajon. Whatever is in his pocket has set the metal detector beeping. He calls it a nail file. Security calls it a knife. Drummer Mark loses the argument, and tosses the knife in a planter to be retrieved later. We’re here to see experimental pop-rock duo Sparks, and the chances of anyone getting hurt by his “weapon” are minimal, but rules are rules. They’re posted right there at the entrance: number one is “have fun.” We're nothing if not compliant, and the hiccup doesn't do much to dampen the mood, which is bordering on the carnivalesque.
I spot two people dressed as tonight's performers: one sports Russell Mael’s trademark zany suit, the other is dressed in black and giving a good imitation of his brother Ron’s stone-faced scowl. Drummer Mark heads to the merch booth to get a shirt, while I approach the faux band for an interview. But I never get it, because there’s a kid — a tall kid, I’m guessing high school age — wearing a Sparks T-shirt that looks like it actually hails from the '70s. I was right about the kid, wrong about the shirt. His name is Travis, he's 17, and the shirt isn’t vintage, but created recently by his mother. He is a lucky kid.
As we chat, a man with piercing blue eyes is paying attention, listening and moving in when there’s space. His name is Mark. I'll call him England Mark, because that’s where he’s from. I estimate his age at mid-sixties, based on his claim that discovered Sparks in 1976 when he was in high school. Like most good stories, it begins with a girl who had an album and let him borrow it. The first time he saw them was shortly after that in his home country.
I ask England Mark to say “Iron Maiden,” and add his iteration to my mental collection of that name rendered with assorted accents. Then we start swapping mythologies. He’s seen shows at what was once The Hammersmith Odeon, which remains the venue’s name to him despite later changes proposed by the management. Much like the Great Western Forum will never be the fucking Kia Forum to me. England Mark marvels at my tales of the Hollywood Bowl, and I feel a combination of envy and happiness for him that he’s attended gigs at The Royal Albert Hall. He’s here because he wanted to see a North American show, and this looked to be the most interesting venue. I ask him his impression of San Diego. He loves the weather, but says he hasn’t tried Mexican food yet, concerned about the spiciness. Later, I will regret not purchasing him some of the carne asada that is being grilled right next to us.
In the lobby, I’m stopped by a guy named Russell — Russell 2.0, for the purpose of this article — who offers me stickers depicting the Mael brothers as animals. His Japanese Sparks tour shirt is a souvenir from his recent trip there to see them. He became a diehard fan via YouTube around 10 years back, half his lifetime ago. He brings up actively listening to the Sparks vinyl he owns as a complete piece of art, and I feel a kinship as he scurries off to pass out more stickers.
I head to my seat as the lights go out and Sparks takes the stage with “So May We Start?” Russell 2.0 is delayed getting to his seat up front. Perhaps a bad wi-fi connection hampers his access to the ticket, and I find my anxiety increasing via concert co-dependence. He finally gets admitted, and I’m relieved enough to become immersed in the world of Sparks.
It’s musical Quirk with a capital Q, featuring lyrics that are insightful, satirical and straight smart–assed. There’s a band raised on a platform behind them, but the main stage is left to the Mael brothers: Russell in his loud suits — his body imbued with hyperactivity that seems to feed his multiple-octave vocal range — and Ron with the perpetual scowl at the keyboards. It’s madness, but with tongue firmly in cheek. Watching Ron glare at his brother as if he’s being pestered is enduringly hilarious, and when he stands to do what appears to be a modified Charleston for a few seconds, the crowd erupts. They erupt again when he does the spoken word section of “Suburban Homeboy.” Then they lose all restraint toward the end of the set, when fan favorites “The Number One Song in Heaven” and “Whippings and Apologies” show up. The crowd, which has been standing still up until now, cannot help but begin to dance.
When the lights come up, there’s a look of unadulterated joy on many faces. Drummer Mark makes a half-hearted attempt to locate his penknife before we walk through the concourse, past the police station, to our cars. I know El Cajon issues tickets for the cigarette I’m smoking, but fuck it. If they bug me, I’ll dance and say, “Please Don’t Fuck Up My World.” Tongue firmly in cheek.
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