Jane’s Addiction at La Cita

I have never been to a show as tall as the one Jane’s Addiction played last Thursday night.

Because my brother works at La Cita, I was one of the very few, and the very very lucky, to get into their show. He pulled me in through the back gate, where, as if the band wasn’t going to be enough, I was plied with beer and shots. It was strange, at first, actually, surreal even. I’ve been to La Cita so many times–I’m the one who introduced Joe to the bar–but I had never seen it empty the way it was when I first arrived.  

We ended up outside, sitting and drinking at the patio bar. It would be a few hours before Jane’s played. My brother introduced me to a growing swell of coworkers, friends, and acquaintances. He had drinks with each of them–so, of course, he had more drinks than I did.

I bring this up because, well, because my brother gets sentimental when he has a lot in him. A lot of his bravado strips away, and talking–really talking–becomes important to him. When Jane’s set time came close, and I was finally able to tear out of the conversation and get back to the main room–well, I found it as full then as it had been empty earlier.

I cursed a little. Mostly under my breath, mostly. But not because I was mad at my brother for talking– no, it was because I knew I had a camera, and I was afraid that no one else might. And that would mean that the responsibility of documenting this awesome, amazing, epic, historic show would be entirely on me–and I had already screwed it up by sitting too long in the patio, and not staking out a spot front and center.  As I slid in near the soundboard, to the left of the stage, the only place I could go, I kicked myself for my stupidity. Between the pillars and the speaker stands and the racks and equipment I could see a quarter of the stage–and I knew that it wouldn’t be the quarter Jane’s would be facing. My joy about seeing the band was turning into some kind of self-loathing.

This was just artistic vanity. It disappeared. It disappeared because, suddenly, Dave, Eric, Stephen, and Perry emerged onto the stage. Dave started strumming and everything just… melted away.

This is where I come back to the tall thing. When I was a kid, on one of many trips visiting Universal Studios, our tour guide pointed out to us that the houses, barns, businesses, and saloons of the backlot’s Western sets were built at 6/7th scale. Making the doors shorter turned actors into Archetypes: long legged, thin, hard men, as tall as the prairie sky. And there, in La Cita, with its low ceilings and strung lights, watching Jane’s Addiction, I was a child again, thinking of Western heros. Perry, in particular, seemed like some joyous titan, almost having to crouch to fit in the room, but doing it so he could reach down to us and share his fire.

After a few minutes, and a few snapshots, I realized two things: One, that everybody in the audience had snuck in a camera. And two, that because of where I was standing, I could barely hear Perry’s voice. The decision was easy for me. I didn’t come for pictures, I came for the music. I slunk away, and headed to dancefloor. From there I could see even less than before–Jane’s Addiction had brought out fans almost as tall as the bandmembers themselves. People were scrunched up between speaker stacks and hanging off banisters. All I had were peeks of faces between supermodel shoulders, but–and this is why I moved–I could hear every note and every word. Forgetting the camera, letting the circumstances slide away, I let the sound of the band wash over me, and I found again what I had almost, in my vanity, lost.

I came for the music. And I heard it.

Handful of show pics on my Flickr.