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Gonzo Report: A surprise hit in the pit at Jerry Cantrell
A flying tooth at Observatory North Park?
There’s a flea market going a couple streets down from the Observatory in North Park. I’m in the racks mining for an Alice in Chains shirt, thinking I could wear it to the Jerry Cantrell show, with Cantrell of course being the heart, mind, and lungs that’s kept Alice in Chains alive since Layne Staley’s rock-star death.
Searching searching searching. I see T-shirts for Biggie Smalls, AC/DC, Korn, Rush, Avenged Sevenfold, Slipknot, Incubus, Steve-O with a lit stick of dynamite protruding from his cornhole. Then I see the word: Alice. I knew there had to be one in there. I pull it from the rack and hold it up. I’m staring into the imprinted face of Alice Cooper. Fuck. I settle on a women’s black long-sleeved Nirvana “Bleach” shirt for a ten-dollar deal. I know somebody who would love and wear it. Somebody who doesn’t talk to me anymore. I’ll leave it in her mailbox the next time I’m in her part of town.
There’s an hour to kill before the doors to the venue open. I’m walking down University. I see a dude wearing all black with a walkie talkie standing outside of North Park Tattoo Parlour. Maybe somebody from the band is getting a tattoo and he’s guarding the door. Turns out he’s Cantrell’s drum tech. His name’s Ian. He reminds me of my friend Jaspy. Glasses, dark hair, cracks raunchy jokes, head on a swivel. He, too, has time to kill before his duties commence.
“Do you know a good place where we can find a drink after the show?” he asks me. “Preferably a place with no live music. Just somewhere quiet where we can shoot some pool and hang out.” He wants a dive bar. We begin to walk down the Avenue. I tell him his best bet in walking distance is probably Seven Grand. Not a dive, but no live music, either. We peer inside and there are a couple of empty pool tables. He seems satisfied. He asks me if I’ve ever played 4-Ball. I haven’t. He starts explaining the rules to me, telling me Jerry Cantrell taught him the game sometime back. We move back towards the venue, and make vague plans to hang out and play pool after the show.
Filter is supposed to open for Cantrell. They were scratched and another early 00’s band called Sparta will now assume the opening role. Unfamiliar with their stuff, I stand and listen from the back. They sound like a house party from one of the colleges I dropped out of. The singer talks about taking a ten-year absence and rediscovering his love for music while playing a show last year at the Soda Bar. I’m ready for Jerry Cantrell.
A quick scan of the crowd reveals exactly what I expect: guys ranging from their early forties to mid-fifties, plus or minus a couple years on either side. Some with a babe on their arms. But it’s mostly a festival of sausage. A little flannel. Not as much as I expected there would be, but it is summer. Plenty of black. I’m seized by the stale smells of Drakkar Noir, unhealthy farts, and pot. I saddle up closer to the stage before Jerry comes out. “You going to open up the pit tonight?” I jokingly ask the guy next to me. He chuckles. I don’t expect much mosh pit this evening, given the audience demographic.
Cantrell opens the set with the song “Psychotic Break” from his 2002 album Degradation Trip. I seem to be the only one singing along. Unsurprisingly, most people are there for the Alice in Chains bones that will get thrown throughout the evening. I personally want to hear songs from Boggy Depot, an underrated gem grunge album. I get what I want early when he pulls out “Cut You In” and “My Song.”
Then the opening riff for “Man in the Box” starts. Whawmp whaw whawmp whaw whaw whawp whaw whawmp whaw. A couple hammered fellas from behind me begin shoving. It’s only a couple of them. They’re having fun. Everyone around them is amused by their little pit — even encouraging. Most just want to enjoy the show. The little bump here and there is fun, right? I’m standing on the outskirts, giving friendly shoves to the ones inside. One guy falls into the back legs of a giant man. The giant man is angry. Angry at the way life turned out? Angry at his father? Angry at doctors with disturbing news about his deteriorating health? I don’t know.
In a flash, the giant man grabs the fallen drunkard by his frizzy ponytail and starts reigning down open palm strikes to his face. Other people jump in. Somebody spills beer on my cheek. Fists are flying. I think I see a tooth fly. I hear Jerry Cantrell in the middle of the song: “Okay, calm down, guys.” He continues to play. Security finally jumps in and drags people away. The crowd beings to chant “Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!” like it’s an episode of Jerry Springer.
After the show, I decide to skip the billiards with Ian and crew. My clothes are soaked in sweat and beer. I walk back to my car and put on the lady Nirvana shirt. It’s a dry shirt. I decide I’m going to keep it.
Here's something you might be interested in.
Gonzo Report: A surprise hit in the pit at Jerry Cantrell
A flying tooth at Observatory North Park?
Gonzo Report: A surprise hit in the pit at Jerry Cantrell
A flying tooth at Observatory North Park?
There’s a flea market going a couple streets down from the Observatory in North Park. I’m in the racks mining for an Alice in Chains shirt, thinking I could wear it to the Jerry Cantrell show, with Cantrell of course being the heart, mind, and lungs that’s kept Alice in Chains alive since Layne Staley’s rock-star death.
Searching searching searching. I see T-shirts for Biggie Smalls, AC/DC, Korn, Rush, Avenged Sevenfold, Slipknot, Incubus, Steve-O with a lit stick of dynamite protruding from his cornhole. Then I see the word: Alice. I knew there had to be one in there. I pull it from the rack and hold it up. I’m staring into the imprinted face of Alice Cooper. Fuck. I settle on a women’s black long-sleeved Nirvana “Bleach” shirt for a ten-dollar deal. I know somebody who would love and wear it. Somebody who doesn’t talk to me anymore. I’ll leave it in her mailbox the next time I’m in her part of town.
There’s an hour to kill before the doors to the venue open. I’m walking down University. I see a dude wearing all black with a walkie talkie standing outside of North Park Tattoo Parlour. Maybe somebody from the band is getting a tattoo and he’s guarding the door. Turns out he’s Cantrell’s drum tech. His name’s Ian. He reminds me of my friend Jaspy. Glasses, dark hair, cracks raunchy jokes, head on a swivel. He, too, has time to kill before his duties commence.
“Do you know a good place where we can find a drink after the show?” he asks me. “Preferably a place with no live music. Just somewhere quiet where we can shoot some pool and hang out.” He wants a dive bar. We begin to walk down the Avenue. I tell him his best bet in walking distance is probably Seven Grand. Not a dive, but no live music, either. We peer inside and there are a couple of empty pool tables. He seems satisfied. He asks me if I’ve ever played 4-Ball. I haven’t. He starts explaining the rules to me, telling me Jerry Cantrell taught him the game sometime back. We move back towards the venue, and make vague plans to hang out and play pool after the show.
Filter is supposed to open for Cantrell. They were scratched and another early 00’s band called Sparta will now assume the opening role. Unfamiliar with their stuff, I stand and listen from the back. They sound like a house party from one of the colleges I dropped out of. The singer talks about taking a ten-year absence and rediscovering his love for music while playing a show last year at the Soda Bar. I’m ready for Jerry Cantrell.
A quick scan of the crowd reveals exactly what I expect: guys ranging from their early forties to mid-fifties, plus or minus a couple years on either side. Some with a babe on their arms. But it’s mostly a festival of sausage. A little flannel. Not as much as I expected there would be, but it is summer. Plenty of black. I’m seized by the stale smells of Drakkar Noir, unhealthy farts, and pot. I saddle up closer to the stage before Jerry comes out. “You going to open up the pit tonight?” I jokingly ask the guy next to me. He chuckles. I don’t expect much mosh pit this evening, given the audience demographic.
Cantrell opens the set with the song “Psychotic Break” from his 2002 album Degradation Trip. I seem to be the only one singing along. Unsurprisingly, most people are there for the Alice in Chains bones that will get thrown throughout the evening. I personally want to hear songs from Boggy Depot, an underrated gem grunge album. I get what I want early when he pulls out “Cut You In” and “My Song.”
Then the opening riff for “Man in the Box” starts. Whawmp whaw whawmp whaw whaw whawp whaw whawmp whaw. A couple hammered fellas from behind me begin shoving. It’s only a couple of them. They’re having fun. Everyone around them is amused by their little pit — even encouraging. Most just want to enjoy the show. The little bump here and there is fun, right? I’m standing on the outskirts, giving friendly shoves to the ones inside. One guy falls into the back legs of a giant man. The giant man is angry. Angry at the way life turned out? Angry at his father? Angry at doctors with disturbing news about his deteriorating health? I don’t know.
In a flash, the giant man grabs the fallen drunkard by his frizzy ponytail and starts reigning down open palm strikes to his face. Other people jump in. Somebody spills beer on my cheek. Fists are flying. I think I see a tooth fly. I hear Jerry Cantrell in the middle of the song: “Okay, calm down, guys.” He continues to play. Security finally jumps in and drags people away. The crowd beings to chant “Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!” like it’s an episode of Jerry Springer.
After the show, I decide to skip the billiards with Ian and crew. My clothes are soaked in sweat and beer. I walk back to my car and put on the lady Nirvana shirt. It’s a dry shirt. I decide I’m going to keep it.
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