Veruca Salt at The Firebird
A few weeks back, something happened that changed my whole summer. Possibly, if we’re being a little dramatic, it changed my next few years. Heck, why be reasonable: it might’ve changed my life! And damned if the story doesn’t involve Facebook.
Scrolling through my news feed, I saw a video of Peter Murphy posted up. That wasn’t all that noteworthy, but then another Murphy comment was seen, the poster checking in at The Firebird. Uh-oh. And here came a third: another person mentioning Peter Murphy and The Firebird because… well, Peter Murphy was at The Firebird. And I’d had no idea before this moment, which was coming to my attention. After. The. Show.
It’s one thing to age into that sad territory in which you’re not hip to every new act. Bands that you’d probably like, a lot, never find a place on your personal Top 40, and there’s a tendency to find excuses for not going to shows: you’re tired from work, you’re actually at work, tickets are too expensive, or life’s just in the way. It’s another thing when an act you’d have walked to Chicago to see in 1994 is playing a show 10 minutes away, and the only reason you’re not there is a lack of awareness.
Peter Murphy, well, I’m a fan. Not a superfan, but someone who appreciates “Cuts You Up” as one of the great tracks of MTV’s golden age, and who realizes the clear importance of Bauhaus. To see Peter Murphy, in a club, in St. Louis, in 2014, it’s not something I’d willingly miss.
So we fast-forward our mental cassette player to this past Sunday. Obsessing over the World Cup in the morning hours, I was scrolling through Facebook and first realized that Veruca Salt was in town. At that moment, I posted up a note, begging for a ticket to this sold-out show. A fellow I know from the good ol’ days, Devin Baker, kicked me a note back, saying that KDHX volunteer and rock ’n’ roll superfan Ken Laster had just offered a ticket, also via Facebook. My begging shifted to Ken’s page, and a half hour later, I was in possession of a KDHX-won guest list slot for Veruca Salt. At the 11th hour, the tickets gods smiled.
But it was a close call. Too close. And it maybe showed that I hadn’t changed my ways after the Peter Murphy Incident, after all. And Veruca Salt’s not a common act, in my mind. Their debut full-length, American Thighs, is one of my 25 favorites, and I’ve stuck through the band’s leaner moments, like catching Louise Post’s IV-era lineup of Veruca Salt at a Pop’s concert that never really took off. You can’t begrudge any musician’s desire to keep their brand alive, but that version of the group (LP + 3) didn’t have a chance to capture the emotion and energy of the original lineup, now back recording and touring today.
Post’s connections to St. Louis have always personalized the group to me, as a fan. I know several of her high school friends, and have met and interviewed her brother, the photographer Eric Post. In another lifetime, I caught the band’s debut at the Hi-Pointe, interviewed them at Embassy Suites on the Landing (while fans buzzed about), and hand-selected the group for an outrageously loaded Midwest Regional Music Festival show at Mississippi Nights, just as the group’s star was rising with the dual, college radio hits of “All Hail Me,” and “Seether.” So, yeah, I kinda dig Veruca Salt. They’re the kind of band I wanna see play a rock concert. When I know about it.
THIS IS HOW GENERATION X GOES TO A SHOW
Despite scoring my ticket, I was a dead man going into Sunday’s show, having overdone it while biking between a World Cup watch party and two post-World Cup parties. After standing and shouting (and drinking) during the 120-minutes game in the summer-heated tent of the Amsterdam, I realized that my balky legs were bad achin’ and once at The Firebird, I remembered that the floors there are hard. I also completely, fully, truly understood how show-going changes for a person, if not a generation. Hard floors? Ugh.
Realizations, in short order:
I missed the biggest chunk of the opening band’s set. Bummer, as Portland’s Battleme won me over in the 10 minutes that I did see. Really good stuff. Skipping the opening band, just because: point against.
At the end of Battleme’s set, I fully realized that my legs were killing me. (Cut me some slack, I’ve dealt with clots and torn tendons.) So I decided to head home during the break for a shoe change, an absolute first in 25 years of concertgoing. Convenience and comfort over chatting with friends: a marginal point for.
My first vantage point came complete with a guy who obviously went to school with Post. He was dancing in front of the pinball machines as only a drunk 48-year-old can do. No thank you. Moved to another spot, just behind a funnyman who was doing impersonations of Family Guy characters. I could tell, because he was yelling their names as at a volume discernable over a rock band; I accidentally kicked him in the Achilles, twice, but he wouldn’t shut it. Another shift and, lo, I’m front of the superfan who wanted to record whole songs with a light on his phone activated. Mind you, growing up in that primordial age known as the ’90s, I didn’t take any photos, and I now wish I’d had. But, today, every other person’s wielding an airborne iPhone, capturing millions of blurred images daily. Complaining about the cameras cutting through vantage points at a show: point against; accidental leg kicks against pint-sized jokester: point for. Even.
It was hot. Even noting the temperature at an indoor, July rock concert: two points against.
Would I pay extra for second-deck, stadium seating when I see Veruca Salt in 2014? What do you think?
OH YEAH: VERUCA SALT PLAYED A SHOW
So, back to the music: the Veruca Salt that played The Firebird is THE Veruca Salt, the original group that offered up the touchstone American Thighs, the solid follow-up Eight Arms to Hold You, and a couple of enjoyable, let’s-get-new-material-to-the-public-quickly EPs. While the band’s two frontwomen, guitarists/vocalists Post and Nina Gordon, are understandably the group’s focal points, the rhythm section of the band, drummer Jim Shapiro and bassist Steve Lack, keep everything grounded. They both shined on Sunday, while their guitarists kept the crowd engaged with commentary and roses.
The band knows that only a few new tracks can be spotted into a show like this, pre-album release, and they were canny in placing those into the setlist. (If curious about where their new recordings are heading, musically, travel over to YouTube to watch the stellar, time traveling “The Museum of Broken Relationships” and “It’s Holy.”) Thankfully, the group’s new material is firmly rooted to that which came before; their new stuff’s not playing around with EDM or Appalachian folk or anything else that would smack of a career reach. Instead, the grungy power-pop that they mastered in the early 1990s is back. And that’s just great.
They played the hits (a slightly-goofed intro to “Volcano Girls” allowed for an unexpected crowd sing-along) and the deeper album cuts, like “Forsythia” and the sprawling “25,” which was given a full, feedback-drenched treatment during the four-song encore.
It was a good show. I’m glad I found out about it, and had a ticket angel in my corner.
Speaking of which, my favorite band, Korn, is playing tonight at Verizon; if going, I’d be seeing them for a fifth time. But it’s a 40 minute drive each way, the group’s only playing a condensed set on a multi-band act, and I never got around to buying a not-so-cheap ticket.
Not begging here. But, you know, sure I’d happily take that extra you’re holding. ‘Cause rock concerts are fun.
