If you missed out on this show, be sad.
Not as sad as if you missed out on their show at Trees almost 3 years ago, when they gave a seriously unbeatable performance, but be sad.
It is my personal, factual, undisputed, universally-accepted-as-truth belief that BRMC is incapable of giving a bad performance. The night of April 27th was no exception.
BRMC no longer stands for “Black Rebel Motorcycle Club”. After their amazing show at Trees in Dallas, TX, last Sunday night, it now stands for “Badass Rockin’ Mind-Blowing Concert”. In other words, my new drug. Their concert was so good, it felt like what I imagine cult members think they’re gonna feel like after they drink the Kool-Aid.
When I woke up on Monday morning, the whole night felt really surreal, like a meth-head dream. I’ve never smoked meth though, so I have no idea what that feels like. The surrealism of the night before makes me think BRMC concerts are drugs in and of themselves, only better since they’re less likely to kill you. I’ve only been to two of their shows, and now attending more is an absolute necessity. In March earlier this year, they came to the House of Blues in Dallas, and the show was good, but Sunday night’s was way better. This was either because Robert Levon Been was on fire, or because this time around, there weren’t any douchebags asking for a tangerine to the face.
I’ve always dreamt of owning a domesticated house chicken. A rooster, more specifically. Not those woman hens. They’re always laying eggs. It’s like they’re on their periods 24/7, but with high cholesterol, and women are just unbearable to be around during their time of the month. Then again, when are women ever bearable?*
My rooster, Dr. Ticklefeathers, would be the most handsome rooster in all the land, or my apartment complex. He would discover his love of music when our Italian neighbor, Vergiovessi, would play his piano at four in the morning because he’d be high on crack. Dr. Ticklefeathers would let the music gently caress the floppy red thing on top of his head and develop an intense desire to become a pop star.
Next thing I know, Dr. Ticklefeathers will start gelling the floppy red thing into a fauxhawk and wearing tight leather pants. He’d change his name to Cock, a bold, artsy name paying homage to his barnyard background while displaying just a hint of subtle sexuality.
He’d release a hit single, “Eggs”, and though it would be a thinly veiled remake of ZZ Top’s “Legs”, he’d become the star of the Squawk Rock genre overnight. McDonald’s would hit him up for an endorsement deal, and he’d go along with it until learning the main ingredient in McDonald’s chicken nuggets. Then he’d check himself into a mental hospital and start doing lines of cock coke off other patients’ buttocks.
It wouldn’t be long before his ego would get so huge he’d abandon me and I’d have to assassinate him for his own good. I would of course use Janet Jackson’s nipple ninja star to decapitate him while he’s performing at the superbowl.
The nation would mourn the loss of Cock (later changed to Coque), but along with other stars that die too young, he would be remembered forever, like Aaliyah (bet you don’t remember who that is, do you?).
*Note: I am a woman. That joke was sarcastic. Please stop threatening to beat me with your tampon. We both know it wouldn’t really hurt me anyway.