Chinese Democracy (Offspring, CBGB’s)

“This is better than sex!” one ecstatic fan screamed out during one of the many breaks during the Offspring’s ridiculously short Tuesday night benefit show at CBGB’s.

“Look, everybody!” shouted Offspring guitarist “Noodles.”  “Someone who’s never had sex, before!”

I wouldn’t fuck Noodles with Dexter Holland’s pussy.  The band repeatedly – well beyond that simple, jokey exchange – displayed blatant disrespect for its fans.  It was easy to find the five biggest assholes in the packed room:  They were up on stage.

About FORTY-FIVE MINUTES into the band’s soundcheck, Holland wandered from the club’s dressing room towards the front, passing – as one must – through the crowd.  “You’re supposed to be...” someone grumbled, pointing at the stage.  It took him another twenty-five minutes to drag his ass up there.  During that time, the band’s two roadies lackadaisically readied equipment, leaving the stage empty for long stretches while they fetched each instrument.  One of them, no doubt, was busy scarfing up Twinkies, back there; he was so fat that a cymbal briefly got caught under one of his floppy man-boobies.  The other, I think, spent his time off-stage hoping that some day he could be as big an asshole as the guys for whom he works.  Long after everything was set up, long after the set-lists had been taped up and the band’s beer supply had been ceremoniously laid out (the servants doing all the twisting-off of caps and such), the asshole-wannabe asked the club’s sound guy to turn the house music up.  Presumably so the band wouldn’t have to hear the crowd chanting for them.

What we should have been chanting:  “Pri-ma Don-na (clap-clap-clapclapclap).” Or, “Axl Rose!  Axl Rose!”

At least one couple left.  Good for them.

I’m reviewing the roadies because they put on a longer set than the band.

This gig was ostensibly about saving CBGB’s... and despite the band’s best efforts, it might have done that, a little.  Because this show started and ended in the crowd.  That’s punk rock, that’s what CB’s was all about.  There’s no hierarchy involved.  There’s no ego.  You’re lucky to have anyone come see you, and you don’t make an audience wait seventy goddamn minutes.  In that amount of time, they’ll likely throw together their own band and take your goddamn slot.

But Dexter Holland wouldn’t know punk rock if a studded wristband was ripping apart the inside of his large intestine.  Not to knock the Offspring’s music:  Smash still makes a great driving soundtrack on an open highway.  Their pop songs are both fun to bounce to and sing along with.  But that’s what they are – corporate radio-sanctioned pop songs.

“Hey, this place is pretty small,” Holland noted.  No shit.  That was the point, right?  He’d been cool, I’d thought, watching his openers’ acts from the side of the stage; I brushed by him on my way to take a piss, and thought he was a pretty big guy.  He got smaller as the night went along.  “Brings back memories, doesn’t it, Noodles?”

Noodles said something along the lines of, “Not for me.  Memories of other peoples’ memories, maybe.”  They talked a lot, Noodles playing Ed to Holland’s Johnny.  Once, Holland asked if they should play something or just talk some more:  “What the heck, right?  There’s no curfew in this place.  We could play for three hours, if we want.”

And I’m thinking:  Don’t make promises you can’t keep.  And:  Bub, you don’t have three hours’ worth of decent material.

In fact, their entire show – including blather – ran sixty minutes. Only ten minutes shorter than their soundcheck.  During that time, they managed to congratulate themselves on playing such a small venue for such a good cause – “This is a really great thing we’re doing,” they said, “and you should be proud of yourselves, too.”  Noodles – who must be double jointed, what with being able to go from playing guitar to patting himself on the back without missing a beat  – cracked a couple Michael Jackson jokes, and mentioned that CBGB’s played host to early performances by punk luminaries like Lisa Loeb and the Gin Blossoms.  Hey, jealousy, Noodles?  You proved last night that the Gin Blossoms are more punk rock than you could ever hope to be.

There was music, too.  The band was tight, though Holland missed some notes.  Their drummer was fantastic.  They didn’t play all of their biggest K-Rock payola-approved hits (they thankfully left out “Pretty Fly (For a White Guy),” “Walla Walla,” and “Original Prankster”); the set list sampled all seven of their CDs.  When Holland went into a spiel about the history of the club, and how the band should “break out something old,” it led not into a Ramones cover, but – because they thought that this was about the Offspring playing CBGB’s, not about CBGB’s itself – a song from the band’s own first album.  Which the crowd loved.

The crowd loved it all.  The pit area managed to stay a pit for almost the entire concert... even though at one point it was filled with nothing but girls.  Crowd surfers (again, mostly women) rolled over each other.  The pit was a good one, courteous, and constantly cycling through new faces; it was a Pop Pit.  I jumped in for “Bad Habit,” my own favorite, and wound up sandwiched against the front just in time to scream “You-stupid dumbshit-goddamn-motherfucker” with everyone else.

I was screaming it at the band, though.

Near the end of the show, Holland went into a very rehearsed spiel about how, hey, this might be the best crowd they’ve ever had.  Seriously, he said with that empty echo of SoCal insincerity, we’ve been around a long time, we’re old guys – we’ve had some collective 193 years of experience, here – and when I say that you’re the best crowd we’ve ever had, that’s something!  And, proving that actions speak far louder than any of their little singles, they left without rewarding that Best Crowd Ever with an encore.  The band hung around on stage for a couple minutes, so they could take pictures of themselves at the club, take pictures of Noodles crowd-surfing (posing, of course, to no music, natch) on top of the Best Crowd Ever... but then they waved goodbye, and pissed-off Roadie #2 came out and decisively pulled the mics.

What a bunch of ingrates.  Noodles offed that he could “die happy, now.”  I would have killed him, but he didn’t deserve the happiness.

I’m not trying to piss on anyone’s parade.  If it was your dream to see these guys in a club setting with a decent set list, you got that.  But these guys aren’t worthy of your dream.  You’re better than that.  If you were at CBGB’s last night, and had fun, you made the fun.  You were awesome, you were the show.  The Offspring were the tired, bloated, detached rockers who punk rock was designed to destroy.  They have trailers and egos that’re bigger than this club, empty trailers, inflated egos, hollow souls.  You, the audience, filled this place up, fleshed that music out, gave that show life.  This band owes you.  Don’t let them think they don’t.

*

Central Village had fun, took pictures.  As did Stereogum.

Last night’s set list, according to these folks:

all i want
long way home
come out and play
cant repeat
want you bad
bad habit
tehran
cant get my head around you
smash
staring at the sun
kick him when he’s down
gotta get away
kids aren’t alright
have you ever
gone away
self esteem

*

I only caught the last notes of the first openers, A Wilhelm Scream, and was alternately amused and confused by second act Theo and the Skyscrapers.  The new band from Lunachicks lead Theo Kogan needs to decide what they are; there’s a solid foundation there, though.  It was probably the atmosphere, but their bass-driven songs sometimes recalled a rough-edged, disco-free Blondie.  I’m not sure whether the guitarist was showing remarkable restraint or was simply stoned out of his gourd, but I liked his spare fill-ins.  Their set ended with some freak-inclusive anthem – which featured Kogan pointing into the crowd, singing “You’re Not Alone” – and some laughable rawk-star posing.  They need to lose both.

tags: cbgbs  music  concert reviews  offspring  

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