Roseland Ballroom
New York, NY
November 9, 2006
Rock shows have taken place at NYC’s Roseland Ballroom without incident for years. Heavy bands like Slayer, Anthrax and Biohazard, among hundreds of others, have plied their angst-driven mosh music to the frenzied masses in the hallowed hall on 52nd Street. In this sweaty and testosterone-driven scene, there’s always going to be the obligatory meathead maneuvers in the pit, like copping a feel or undercutting a flying mosher. Rarely if ever, is the venue or the band at fault for underhanded behavior. That is until this night, when the front-of-stage metal barricade became unhinged during the fourth song of Primus’ first set, “American Life.”
The crowd was aggro, and the components for a “perfect storm of angst” were building before Primus come onstage: a warm Indian summer night, gridlock conditions on the sidewalks and streets, no work or school the following day because of Veteran’s Day, a lot of booze, and an opening band no one knew.
Primus hit the stage at 9:15PM to the strains of Danny Elfman’s “Pee Wee’s Great Adventure,” before launching into “Harold on the Rocks.” Claypool was adorned in the regalia of a 19th century explorer: baggy pants, boots, vest, long-sleeved white shirt, white elephant hunter hat and bifocals in lieu of a dangling monocle.
With bright red drops falling in the background, Claypool led the hunt, pushing guitarist Larry LaLonde through the sonic jungle that Claypool and drummer Tim Alexander were laying down. The second selection, “Here Come the Bastards,” was shorter and a bit more linear than past performances of the tune.
“American Life,” with its lyrics reflecting the struggles of immigrants and war veterans that have been cast aside, has more relevance today than when it came out in 1991. Claypool moved pragmatically, stalking his prey as not to wake it, then his sonic cannon of a bass went off and so did the crowd as crowd surfers were thrown ass over elbow.
The song seemingly finished without incident, until Claypool stepped to the mic to say that the barricade was failing and there would be a ten-minute break to repair it, and now would be a good time to buy some popcorn and hotdogs. Someone stepped in from the wings and implored everyone on the floor to take ten steps back. “Listen, if you don’t move ten steps back, there will be no show.” With that, everyone groaned and took ten steps back.
Fifteen minutes later the show resumed to “Frizzle Fry” a crowd favorite that set the show back on its deep and rocking pace, only to be even further elevated in pace and improvisation on the maddeningly glorious “ Those Damn Blue Collar Tweekers.”
The energy was insane, heads banging. It wasn’t a stringy noodle affair: hard metal riffs to Claypool’s pounding. Moments like these are what makes Primus “Primus”: the ability to have dudes wearing Iron Maiden T-shirts rocking out with girls wearing hippie skirts and dancing bear beanies; the joyous, head-on collision of two different but similar musical scenes.
“Seas of Cheese” and “Mr. Krinkle” are hysterical and boundless songs but didn’t seem inspired. “My Name is Mud” and “Jerry Was a Race Car Driver” were done with familiar ferocity, with help from the frothing crowd.
Primus then left the stage only to return to provide an insane improv that brought them into “Is It Luck?” At the end they put down their instruments and walked off stage. The house lights came on and the PA softly played music.
The time was 10:40 PM. I was as stunned as the crowd. I waited along with everyone, waiting for more, but didn’t get any. Now there was a palpable but weird tension in the air. People were confused and no one felt like the show was over. “According to management, the band played their full set,” reported Primus’ publicist the following day.
Tell that to the guy who was standing in the middle of 52nd Street, yelling, “Seriously, Primus sucks.” Some expectations are hard to meet even when moments of greatness occur, whether they caught it or not.
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