LA Weekly

The journey to the Wizard of Paul is a long and whining road to say the least. If it had been anyone else I would have bailed before I allowed the chick with the note pad and the blue Sharpie to brand the right top of my hand with a very stylish '281'.

I'm glad I toughed it out but my shoulders still hurt from holding my head up and my giant burnt nose looks like the prize winning tomato at the county fair.

My buddy Bruce and his pal Adam were in the low 250's so it was nice having someone I know not far away because I'm sort of antisocial and I'm terrible at meeting new people.

The line was like a giant game of Telephone being played by hippies and nieces. Whatever info that came from the front of the line had become transformed and mutated to the point of pure neurological pain by time it got to the other end. Rumors flailing around about when, how, why and what number of people would actually see the “cute one” kept the tension high. A sort of hierarchy was assembling amid the fairly new comers and the odd mutants toward the front that seemed to have endless free time sit on the sidewalk for three days. Kinda creepy.

The show attracted some of LA’s most notables---Melrose Larry Green and Dennis Woodruff. Woodruff drew a few hoots and hollers when he paraded down the street in his self-promoting, gas powered billboard of a car…the first time. He liked that small bit of attention so much that he came around for seconds but no one really paid any attention this time as he stuck his head out his window yelling: “I’M DENNIS WOODRUFF, I’M DENNIS WOODRUFF”! While K-EARTH 101 blasted sixties oldies, Melrose Larry got into a neat shouting match about the Vietnam War with guy sporting a Village People handlebar moustache. You really can’t buy this kind of entertainment.

Finally, we cows we’re herded into the legendary Amoeba record store and duly paced into rows between the CD and record racks. I was stationed in the used section by Tim and Jeff Buckley, The Buck Pets and the Buggles. (I’m going back for that Buck Pets CD).

Macca was so good that everybody seemed to forget that we weren’t allowed to move about and Amoeba has no public restrooms. I didn’t remember that I had to pee until I was deep under the Cahuenga Pass on the subway on my way home. That’s pretty good hang time for post concert euphoria in my book.

That was the most grueling gig I’ve ever endured and I’ve endured about two and a half billion gigs but the payoff cannot be measured. I hope the kid in front of me who sold his wristband to a slimy car salesman type for $250 has a severe ‘I’m-dumb-ass’ hang over for the next fifteen years---I’ll bet he does.

–Peter Fletcher

Photos by Mark Mauer

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