Nine Black Alps: The Losanjealous Review
aka Get Off Couch, Rock Balls, Old Man
745pm, Saturday, 13 May 2006. I’m seriously crashed in front of the tube. Stuck to the couch. Aquaman underoos swathed in Thai fisherman’s pants. Shirtless. Faultless. Foodless. Grizzled. Dandruff-laden. Restringing the acoustic. Halfway into a bottle of Chateau d’Something’r’Rose. Sheer unadulterated weekend laziness. Watching mayor of the sunset strip on the showtime. The time of shows. Phonecall. Hell.
Audree: Hey Ryan. How was your New Year?
Me: New Year’s!? Jesus Audree whyn’t you wait six more months, ask me about NEXT New Year’s. New Year’s…
Me: It was good. New Year’s. Yeah. Right. I had people over. Just a few. ’Was raining. I believe steamed clams were involved. I’ve a garlic residue to this day.
Audree: Are you gonna go to nine black alps tonight?
Me: Interesting. Hadn’t planned on it. I’m sort of in hibernation this weekend. Too much fun last week. Then I went to New Orleans. Tonsils feel dodgy. Nine black alps, huh. Whaddathey sound like.
Audree: Um. Brit rock. I need a writer!! [Redacted] cancelled! He’s sick!
Me: You still shooting for magazines? How’s that going. Whattayamean, sick. Asian flu? Yellow fever?
Me: Brit rock. Yehhh, not so much. Tell me more.
Audree: Wulll….I really dunno what they sound like. I mean, I can’t describe it. They’re popular, like, overseas.
Me: I dunno man, I was supposed to watch Superman 2 after this. What time is it…745? You think they’ll be on around 945?
Audree: Yeah, there’s an opening band. Ok cool! Ticket in your name at the box office?
Me: Alright, fuck it, see you there. Cool. I’ll be late though. See you there.
Flashforward. 607am. I’m back on the couch. Underoos. What the hell is this giant jar of peanuts doing on the coffee table. What the hell is my foot doing on the coffee table. What the hell am I doing on the couch. Ah yes. Nine black alps. Had to go out. Couldn’t hibernate just this once.
Doorman: Here take this man, go hang out upstairs. There’s a lot of ladies up there.
The loft. I love the loft. I’m a baller shotcaller. I make for the upstairs bar. Order a Heine. Beers are suddenly $7 at the troubadour now. $7. Are you fucking kidding me. You could almost buy the nine black alps cd for $7.
I talk to Joulene. She saw the nine black alps the night before at the glass house in pomona. She covered them at spaceland last year. She’s obviously a fan. People keep comparing the nine black alps to nirvana. I try not to laugh. Nonetheless I begin to get my hopes up.
I talk to Jolie. She’s wearing a birthday tiara. I meet writers. Alps fans. People are dropping words on me. Rolling Stone. Filter. Urb. Heineken. $7. Nirvana. The Loft.
Fever. Some band is playing. They give me fever. No, they are fever. The opening band. They are passable. They are not what I have travelled ten long blocks via metro to witness.
Downstairs now. Up front. Loud. The nine black alps are good. Better than good. Bordering on very good. They are not nirvana by any stretch. Who started that? On the upside they are definitely not a Franz-alike. I enjoy myself. Take off my shoes. Loosen my tie. Call my attorney. Make him rock out over the phone, just for a few minutes. I enjoy the slow number most of all. I haven’t enjoyed slow numbers from rockers since the Scorpions. God damn it. If these guys were to go on tour with the Scorpions…
But no. The show ends. We end up at some cheesy dance club on Hollywood Boulevard.
1am: I am having the time of my life. I am dancing to the eighties tunes I grew up with!
125am: You, ooh, Strange as angels.
Dancing in the deepest oceans
Twisting in the somethingYou’re just like a dream! Oh, you’re just like a dream to me.
130am: RUN! The lights are on. We are all sweaty, drunken people!
135am: Take cover in main room. We are dancing on top of a platform. We are dancing the sillyman dance! People are wishing we would just go home!
607am: Couch. Underoos. Jumbo jar of peanuts. I get up. Cook up an ultra-fat, ultra-juiced sicilian sausage. The scent fills the house. I make a full press of coffee. Pick up a book. Turn on the TV. Hibernation resumes.