PETER BJORN AND JOHN AND ME
PETER BJORN AND JOHN AND ME
I just got back from seeing Peter Bjorn and John LIVE in concert at the Nokia Club in Downtown LA. They’re that obscure band that mixes rock with folk music and other weird sounds that entail some heavy and soft guitar. They’re the ones that sing that contagious whistling little number about how “We don’t care about the old folks…” You know them, don’t cha? Well you should! They’re pretty cool.
Any-effing-way, I don’t know why concert tickets straight up LIE about their start time. According to the itinerary, the Peter Bjorn and John show was starting at 9p.m. These gigs never start on time, I know, and I get that they need to force-feed you some no-name band so you can get your drink on, but the ticket didn’t say ANYTHING about TWO opening acts of unknown bands–one which called themselves “Los Perros del Mar” or some shit like that. What was most annoying is how they had to unplug everything after each band played, and then they dicked around with sound checks for like ever. THEN some drunken bearded fat fuck, who I guess does stand up on Comedy Central, decided to do some dumb skit about his cock and balls—“Ladies, you can’t take them with you.” The entire crowd booed. “Awkward,” some people yelled. I was ready to start breaking dishes. He had no choice but to bring PB&J to the stage, which was closer to 11pm than 9pm.
HOW-ever…they’re a pretty cool band. The instant they came on, it was ON! I was pleased to know most of the lyrics to their songs. The guy Bjorn was a little tone deaf, but Peter more than made up for it with his unique voice and he had a lot of energy for someone who’s kinda/sorta chubby. John looked somewhat out of it on the drums, but the overall sound was tight. They gave me my “Young Folks” song–live whistling and all–which took me back to 2007, when I was in rehab…I remember breaking the rules by hitching a ride to a 12-step meeting down in Hollywood Blvd. I wasn’t allowed to listen to music while I was on “mental lockdown”, so I had no idea what was hot on the radio. The guy giving me a lift was blaring “Young Folks” at seven in the morning. The whistling was an earworm that never left me. Eventually I had a friend sneak me some contraband PB&J music via an Ipod Shuffle, and that’s how I became a fan.
The concert crowd was interesting. It was mostly a straight crowd. The girls had messy fake eyelashes stacked on their lids, ratty hair and ripped stockings. And they spilled their drinks all over the place while they did the clumsy dance to whatever was playing. The guys outnumbered the girls of course—“It’s guys, all guys.” One guy complained. “Fucking guys…” His guy friend responded—One mean looking heavyset bald guy standing in front of me made me nervous. He looked like he wanted to hit something. Then PB&J came on and he started screaming like a little girl. I hoped he was kidding.
It was a good show. It was a long show. We stood for three hours and we couldn’t stand it anymore. We bailed before they finished their set. My biggest regret was not hearing them sing “Objects of my Affection”, which is another great rehab song—“I laugh more often now. I cry more often now. I am for me…”
See for yourselves:
Any-effing-way, it’s late. Off to bed.