Band: Primus
Venue: Sloss Fest at Sloss Furnaces
Temp: Hotter than balls
Crowd: Sweaty and smelly as butt
Crew: None
SLOSS!
I popped my Jerry! My Primus Jerry, at the awesome inaugural #SlossFest, @slossfest, in Birmingham, Alabama. My friends said they were jealous, but I didn’t see them jealous enough to stand in 97 degrees to watch a band they saw for the first time in 1991. First, though, have you ever been to Sloss Furnaces? It’s my all time favorite place in this city. Putting a music fest in it was a stroke of genius.
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| Milo Greene, not Primus |
CROWD!
I lied about my crew being “None”. My lovely wife was with me and it’s a good thing too, because I needed someone to hold my backpack, sit in the air conditioned VIP tent, and hate my music. It’s really hard to slam with a backpack. It’s like jogging with D-cups, I guess.
Walking up to the crowd, I could see the waves of heat oozing off shiny shoulders of almost-naked dudes with their shirts tied on their heads. I kept mine on because, well because, gross, slippery, wet dudes. Blech. And my Dad bod had some major tan lines. And sweaty dudes.
The audience was about 30 standing rows deep before you hit the Blanket People sprawled out on the dirt and gravel. I went to the middle of the crowd and hung with two guys that travelled “all the way from Anniston, man!” That’s only an hour away, but they made like it was forever. They must've never travelled past Uncle Bo's porch for a music fest. Or maybe they took the long way through Georgia. Or they were stoned for the drive. That’s more likely, because they fired a spliff up right there. Then the group next to me fired one up. They offered it to me and, of course, I did NOT partake (because drugs are bad, kiddies). It really wasn’t an actual offer. The girl turned to me, held it out, and got this look like “Oh my God! I just offered a joint to somebody’s dad!” Dad bod, graying hair, hipster plaid button up shirt, at a Primus show... I get it. But, after seeing the psychedelic show, I get why dope is good appetizer.
GET CLOSER!
“I’m going in, guys. Let me by.”
“Go get’em dude!” the Anniston boys cheered me on.
Next stop, behind Big-Six-Foot-Wide-Shirtless-Longhair. He seemed nice enough, but boy did he stink. And then he fired one up. Ahhh… a medley of festival smells…Now I just need a beer spilled on me and it will be complete.
PRIMUS!
Finally, the lights went down and the cheers started
“PRIMUS SUCKS! PRIMUS SUCKS! PRIMUS SUCKS!”
I didn’t join in because I’ve never seen them live, so how would I know. Right? But from what I could see, from behind Big-n-Wide-n-Shirtless, Primus doesn't care that they suck. At least we weren't spitting on them like true punks.Larry (Ler), the guitarist took his place, his hippie hair draped over his shoulders. He struck the first “chord” (Quotes are for the lack of "music") Yeah, I know what Primus sounds like, so I shouldn’t be surprised, but I also know they play SONGS. Those things with melodies and stuff. This started out like the screeching roll of the iron carts on the Sloss steel tracks. No worries, though, it would soon morph into something good — Wynona's Big Brown Beaver or was it My Name is Mud? It was tough to tell the difference up that close. And I think everyone was having trouble because nobody danced right off. There was plenty of head bobbing and fist waving, just no bouncy, sweat swapping.
“JERRY!!” An avid radio listener screamed.
“Man, chill” I thought. As if Primus would somehow forget to play Jerry. The band didn’t listen to him and Les Claypool launched into a profession of love for the jalepeno corndogs being battered fifty feet away. He delivered it in his trademarked Head-Full-Of-Ice-Cold-Helium-Filled-Cartoon-Characters voice, which at least entertained us. Then a long, drawn out, jazzy, jam band, festival type medley of noise brought us all to a standstill. By now, my feet are dying for something to skank to and this wasn’t it. The crowd took out their mid-show smokes, lit them up, said hello to new friends, called their grandparents, and caught up on all their Facebook posts. Claypool left the stage with Ler and his guitar for some more noise. Les needed a break. I couldn’t blame him -- it was blazing hot and rockstars can’t dress appropriately for heat, except hot chicks who like to flaunt the goods. Three minutes of drum noise later from Herb, and Les is back.
I think it’s Les.
No.
It's!! Mr. Krinkle.
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| Mr. Krinkle!!! |
The iconic pig gets us whipped up with cheers of how much PRIMUS SUCKS!
and
“JERRY!”
Things started bouncing. Gross-Big-n-Wide bumped his sweaty, hairy back on me. I stepped back and a $8 cup of beer went down my back. Festival smell medley was completed. What dumb ass brings $8 beers into a pit? And, YES, a small pit did swirl up, enough to clear a path for me to the front four rows. But it didn’t last more than ten seconds.
Finally, I got away from Big-Wide-n-Shirtless-Pool-of-Sweat, to the center with Small-n-Shirtlesses — a couple of guys who wouldn’t be able to push me down.
SELF-INSPECTION TIME!
It was still a question: “If a pit formed, was I going in?” Just in case, I did the safety checks.
Wallet buttoned in? ✓
Phone bottom pocket? ✓
Keys? ✓
Hat on tight? ✓
Keens tight enough... Yeah, Keens… in a dusty, dark pit. I rationalized the hard plastic should keep my toes safe enough. ✓
“JERRY!!” one more time by Mr. Obvious.
“Shut up, dude. They’ll play it, I promise!”
The Avett Brothers were about to start on the other stage and the girls here were growing anxious, pulling their half-dressed boys’ arms and whining, “Come on, Murder in the City, Brooklyn Brooklyn! Come on!” But it’s hard for a weakling Avett fan to hold tight to a sweaty Primus fan.
“JERRY!!”
Then, after another 5 minutes of jazzy-jam-jam, the Jerry bass intro hit our ears.
And the crowd erupted! ! ! Of course. The swirl started. Sweat dripped into my eyes. I think it was my own. It could've been flung from a long-hair inflaming a vertebral disc with every head bang. Later in life he’ll lie to his surgeon, “No, I haven’t been through any traumas.”
"JERRY!!"
Decision made! I went head long, arms extended, knees rising, into the fray. The moshing sweat balls all looked at me like I was lost, like I must have missed a turn to the nearest Barry Manilow concert. One went down, spilled his craft beer. I grabbed him by his pits and yanked him up. Just fifteen, or so, moshers can be a good time. But there's always a soft mosher, usually a chick. It bounced off me so softly and I looked up. It was a shark! (this is not fiction. It was slammer dressed as a shark) That was our pit - 15 plus a shark.
♩♩Wrapped his self 'round a telephone pole!♩♩
CHAOS!!
A problem popped up - I almost lost a Keen. I imagined myself one-foot hopping to scoop up my festival sandal. And just like that, as if Primus didn’t know how to stretch a song out til next week, they stopped at the end.
It never before hit me how short Jerry is. In an almost-elevated breath, with my hands on my hips, I turned to the young slammer next to me and lamented, “Damn. They should’ve played that first.”
Now I get it. Next time I’ll be yelling “JERRY!!!”
The END
