Whotta show. Sold out. Three bands--well, two and-a-half bands; the other was a novelty act most likely courtesy of Mr. Patton or someone with a similarly sick, twisted love--for the pauper's sum of 15 bones. Isis was fucking UNBELIEVABLE, exploding with a scorched-earth dissonance that easily bettered what I've heard of their studio output (this also includes OCEANIC, which I bought on Tom's recommendation), with domineering riffs that could've lasted for the next 15 years without a single soul leaving the Troubadour to get on with their lives. They were that captivating and commanding a presence. Every note sweltered with metallic brimstone.

The Melvins established permanent residence in the House of Awesome with a set perfect for display in hotpants. I hadn't seen them since the STAG-HONKY years, and I must admit it was disconcerting to see the pepper coils sprouting from King Buzzo's awe-inspiring 'do. But this WAS their 20th anniversary tour, and it HAD been at LEAST six-seven years since we'd last breathed the same air, and I've been a Melvins fan since at LEAST 1991, so time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin' into the future. Buzz was resplendent in a medieval gown, a red cross painted across his chest and a sludgy Sabs git-tar that bellowed for blood. Dale Crover must have the greatest drum set in all of rock; he's the only drummer I know of who's given center stage. If I were his kit I would've sued for abuse years ago--the man is a savage. All the better for us. Kevin Rutmanis, one of the Melvins' 43634736221 bassists over the years, was quite the sight himself, coaxing squalling melodic feedback from his snarling beast and offering it as sacrifice to the Hendrix gods.

The highlight, of course, was when the Melvins went into some Dead Kennedys song--I couldn't tell you what it was, the show was that damn loud, and I only have one Dead Kennedys album (BEDTIME FOR DEMOCRACY). But who should come bounding down the stage stairs (the cool thing about the Troubadour is that the VIP room overlooks the stage, so the audience and the band can see one another) but Mr. Jello Biafra himself, resplendent in blue jeans, bowling shoes, leather vest, and FUCK THE WAR T-shirt. He primped and vamped and shimmied and Jaggered and warbled, much to the delight of everyone--one person even shouted, "I DON'T FUCKING BELIEVE THIS!", as if this were the punchline to the greatest dream ever. And maybe it was.

The only down note is that I think I'm getting too old to be knocked about by slamdancers. I've lost patience with the whole thing. I go to a show to see the band and absorb their music, not to say, "Excuse me" and "Sorry" to the people I'm inadverently shoved in to by some wild-eyed Bornean white boy in the throes of adulation practically humping my back to get that much closer to Buzz Osbourne, the object of his dangerous fantasies. The upside, of course, is that, through no maneuvering of my own, by the fourth song in the Melvins' set, I was at the foot of the stage, my view of the fuzzbucket rockout unimpeded by head or arm.

Great show, good weekend.

Sunday I went to see SPARTAN. Will Ferrell and Cheri Oteri weren't particularly funny. But the girl at the box-office was reading Franz Kafka's METAMORPHOSIS. I asked her if she was reading that for kicks. She shot me the look that killed Socrates.