Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil My trip to Verizon Wireless Amphitheatre for Jane’s Addiction was an adventure in “wonderland.” At the gates and basically everywhere you turned, people were trying to give away tickets and shortly after entering, a friend of a friend even asked if I wanted a backstage pass.
As the band took the stage, an angelic Perry Farrell appeared center stage. His all-white ensemble included a mushroomed skirt that appeared to flow in the cool night’s breeze. But it didn’t take long before the beautiful became the bizarre, as legs, then bodies, raised from within the skirt. Then suddenly, in a flash of light (accompanied by a heavy, pounding riff), I was no longer at just another concert; I was at some sort of kinky S&M show. Not to go into too many details in fear of sounding frigid or something, let’s just say it was almost more entertaining watching men in the crowd respond to leather-clad chicks swinging spread-eagle from a carousel than watching the band.
Despite the flying crotches and strippers galore, the band played a short but tremendous set that included “Jane Says,” “Stop” and “Mountain Song.” The set didn’t include their only “commercial” hit “Been Caught Stealing.” But then with the Jane’s gang, nothing’s shocking.
Black Jack Looking more tan than even George Hamilton, Jack Hanna brought a few of his exotic four-legged pals from his Animal Adventures to Novello’s WordPlay Festival held downtown on Saturday. The animals, by the way, weren’t allowed to stay at the Park Hotel according to one of Hanna’s handlers. The current king of animal-land appeared to be humbled when he briefly shared the stage with Jim Fowler, known as the spokesperson of the natural world, and who made a surprise appearance. Even though there were plenty of other activities going on, Hanna clearly had the largest audience and the longest line for autograph seekers.
At some point I was even coaxed into holding the end of a Burmese Python while kids were suppose to guess exactly where the reptile’s tail began. Not only did this punk have me holding a slimy snake, he also psyched all of the kids out: The snake’s tail only makes up about 5 percent of its entire body. Who knew?
Among the booths lining the streets was one table with an enormous pile of chocolate ice cream on it, which apparently you were free to scoop at will. Since this was an event for the “younger audience,” my adult companion and I decided to give the darling kids first dibs. We were disgusted: the damn rug rats had it scooped up and gone in a matter of minutes!
Play us some Skynyrd After the joys of literacy education, I headed to Atherton Mills in SouthEnd for some education in adult beverages: the Carolina BrewMasters’ third annual Oktoberfest; there were plenty of things to learn. Aside from moderation, which is certainly key, it’s also important to know that the five-gallon buckets located at each table can be used for rinsing your glass with the water provided. More importantly, you can use it to pour out the beers you don’t like. With that said, it’s a pleasure to report that this was the first beer tasting I think I’ve ever attended that Earl was never called upon.
At one distributor’s booth, a photo was prominently displayed of one of their fellas with as many gold medals hanging from his neck as Jay-Z. It made such an impression on one nicely dressed father, I overheard him telling his toddler, “Look at all of those gold medals, sweetie. See, hard work can pay off.” What a dad.
Overall, I think only three official beer tasting glasses made the casualty list. And only in the South could covers of the Soggy Bottom Boys and Lynyrd Skynyrd go over at a German festival.
Phat City Saturday was also the day of the Niche & Inland Oyster Roast and Music Bog at Fat City in NoDa. Although the turnout seemed a bit small, the bar stayed busy. Late in the night, one happy patron asked a bartender if he had a “speckled” beer. He quickly served up an “Old Speckled Hen.” It’s the “Kickin’ Chicken” of beer, he said with a smile. As for the oysters, well, I can’t be sure how it was handled prior to my arrival, but this is what I saw: A table set up out back with a spotlight shining down on it and at the end, a small wheelbarrow full of oysters. But despite the, umm, rustic accommodations, there were plenty of folks just a-shucking. Whether the staggering chick that looked green about an hour later had had too much to drink or got a bad oyster, I can’t be certain.
The music, however, was definitely handled in a much better fashion. Both the inside and outside stages rotated with everything from banjo pickin’ bluegrass to psychedelic jams to revved up rockabilly. A.L. Wood, The Merle, Ghost Trane, Janah and the Belmont Playboys were among the acts I saw. And while the liquor may have flowed just as heavy as the beer, I don’t think one glass hit the floor. Well, they were actually using plastic cups, come to think of it. LF
The New New South. . . The Museum of the New South, recently re-christened the Levine Museum of the New South, held a $75 and $150 a person gala re-opening celebration Saturday night, featuring “Southern spirits and fare,” live music, loads of rich old people drinking themselves silly at the open bar, and at least one attendee breaking in some new thrift-store khakis. Singer Beth Chorneau serenaded the audience as people dined on such Southern delights as Balsamic Fig on Goat Cheese Flatbread and Duck Hash with Wasabi Vinaigrette and Wonton Crisp. The Briarhoppers actually cited in part of the museum’s exhibit on 1930s and 40s Charlotte recording history sounded not a day older than 50, cranking out a fairly tight set even though most of the members can say they saw Babe Ruth play. The museum itself is a beauty, accurately evoking the mood of the period as one wanders through the maze-like chronology of Charlotte from Reconstruction through the cotton boom through the Great Depression, all the way up to the race and growth issues our burg still struggles with today. It’s a rather remarkable way to spend a couple of hours, and every Charlottean should be forced to go at least once. And some more than once. Various local actors answered questions and offered interesting tidbits, while dressed like important people in Charlotte’s history. One gentleman dressed as the late author Harry Golden, the Jewish wit who published the renowned Carolina Israelite. A rather well-dressed conservative couple were about 10-15 feet away when they saw a copy of Golden’s great Only in America and began pointing at the impersonator. June Cleaver: “That’s the guy that wrote this book, honey! Oh my God!” Ward Cleaver: “Astounding!” (No lie.) Another re-enactor was dressed in full graduation attire, and couldn’t have been a day over 27. “I graduated high school in the late 50s,” he began. Ward and June stared, mouth agape. TCD
This article appears in Oct 17-23, 2001.
