Tweedy

Last night Q and I saw Jeff Tweedy at the Fillmore. It was my 4th time seeing him, and Q's first. I was excited, trying not to oversell Tweedy to Q (if that's even possible) as I ranted and raved, extolling his banter and command of the crowd while we scarfed down sandwiches at a nearby bar. After we ate, I administered a poorly timed fart that sounded out loudly just as the music stopped. The smell was heinous. The bar's patrons snarled with disgust and women looked back at me over their shoulders with dropped jaws. I wondered if they could taste it. We left, mainly to escape the stench, and headed to the show.

The opener, Jeff Tweedy's best friend, sounded like a shittier version of him. He wasn't especially bad and his songs were enjoyable enough, but he didn't excite me. When Tweedy came on the crowd went wild. People began smoking cigarettes. I felt like we went through a time-warp back to the 90's. I went to the bathroom and changed into my JNCO jeans. On my way back I managed to score some good Mitsubishi ecstasy for the Sasha show later; it really was the 90's.

Tweedy's performance was masterful. His willingness to interact with the crowd, take requests and admonish assholes was impressive. He gave the crowd the feeling we were hanging out with him in his living room, telling us stories and playing only the songs we wanted to hear. He played old songs, new songs and covers, as well as some songs I hadn't heard before. One of them, a Handsome Family cover called So Much Wine, was particularly good. The show ended (after what seemed like 50 songs) with Tweedy belting out Dreamer in My Dreams - completely un-micced - while strumming a worn acoustic guitar.

After the show we headed over to Vessel just before Sasha came on. The change in venues was abrupt and radical. We'd left a smoky concert hall and arrived at a packed nightclub near the Tenderloin; a laser-filled basement full of scantily-clad women and beastly looking men with far too much gel in their hair. The lights strobed and the bass thumped loudly as we slowly moved through a sea of people toward the DJ booth. I was introduced to Sasha, who stood exuding a cool insouciance while maintaing a gentle kindness and smooth intrigue. The DJ booth was a nightmare-dream for the claustrophobic. I stood pressed tightly against a wall in front of Sasha and Q, a foot of space between us, while an upright fan blew air in my face. Women with more legs and breasts than Colonel Sanders squeezed by, rubbing their bodies against me unapologetically as they smiled and said they were sorry.

Sasha's set was good but it was mostly lost on me due to fatigue. While Q and I sat in a large leather chair in the DJ booth, numerous drunken and drug-addled women attempted to flirt with us. He told one of them that he was Sasha's father, to which she replied "Who's Sasha?" Ah, to be young. She was attractive enough to invite conversation, so I entertained it. Soon though, I realized she couldn't count..to two. It's amazing how quickly an attractive woman can lose her allure once stupidity rears its head. Another woman, dressed like it was halloween, wearing a short skirt and a kind of sailor's outfit, approached me and commented on my tattoos and T-shirt. She spoke so closely to my mouth I could taste what she said.

Her breath smelled like cum. Or maybe it was mine.