Live: Down + Melvins + Weedeater

Posted September 14 by Jeanne F.

September 11, 2009, Nokia Theatre, New York City.

If there’s one band that's not from New York City but whose members know what it’s like to watch your surroundings collapse—literally and figuratively—it’s Down. Anyone who lived through Katrina undoubtedly understands what it’s like to feel helpless, angry, and scared for your life. With that in mind, my photographer Mike Turbé and I trudged through the wet streets of Times Square to get our groove on.

Weedeater’s demented backwater metal jams made me want pot brownies. Nokia Theatre doesn’t sell them. So I had a beer. Really not the same. The trio looked like they belonged on a porch in Deliverance country. I bet they habitually “forget” to flush their turds. Dixie Dave Collins wildly stomped his left leg as if this was some kind of meth-powered hoedown. Kevin Kirkum doesn’t sit on a drum stool. He prefers a cushion on top of a box. Guitarist Dave Shepherd and Collins stand to the left and right of Kirkum, leaning over his shoulders. I was hoping they’d sit on his knees. They didn’t. These guys are not allowed to use my toilet. Ever.

From the moment the Melvins plugged in to the moment they cut the cords, my entire body was humming. These pictures are an apt representation of what it was like to see through my eyeballs when the band was playing. Duct tape three dozen vibrators to your body (get every crevice) for maximum effect. In his black floor-length cloak with turtleneck collar, King Buzzo looked the offspring of Dr. Seuss and Harry Potter. I briefly thought of how awesome it would be if Buzzo was naked under that cloak, and how awesome it would be if he flashed the crowd during “The Bit.” But his pubes probably rival his ‘fro and someone in the front row could have lost an eye if that bush was set free.

“You people in the front look as bored as my mom,” Buzzo told the crowd. “Even if you are bored, don’t worry. Down is coming. You coulda went to a rained-out Yankee game.” Better to have your circulatory system dismantled and hosed down by the Melvins’ perennially smashtastic and mesmerizing repertoire. Before packing it up, the band sang the national anthem with members of Down. No irony. They exited the stage to Ethel Merman’s “There’s No Business Like Show Business.” Lots of irony.

Phil’s hair is back to that quasi Krishna-looking Mohawk. He pounded his heart with his fist and pointed to the crowd with both hands. They opened with “Eyes of the South” and almost immediately someone from the balcony poured half a cup of beer on a bouncer’s head because the bouncer was a little too eager in yanking a kid from the crowd.

Phil tried for a moment of silence for 9-11 but that didn’t work. The crowd chanted “U-S-A” instead and it satisfied him enough. Dedications were as follows: “Lifer” for Dimebag, “Ghosts of Mississippi” for Rex Brown, and “New Orleans is a Dying Whore” for “us” [meaning Down]. Each song in the set was balls-out tremendous, but it wasn’t until Down covered “Ain’t Talkin’ ‘Bout Love” that I screamed like a little girl. Like, all high-pitched and fluttery and shit. I’m still smiling about it.

Their encore was comprised of “Hail the Leaf,” “Stone the Crow” and “Bury Me in Smoke,” but people walked out of the venue singing Van Halen. Hey hey hey!!

** All photos by Mike Turbé. Used with kind permission.

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