2003-07-07 - 1:07 a.m.

I have been to the mountain, and it is good.

On July 5th, I went in the company of my family, Blazer, Charspider, and Julieclipse to the House of Blues in Orlando, a long tedious trek through the twisted heart of the kraken that is Disney World, wrapping its long arms around the whole of south-central Florida.

Charming place. It is marked with a faux-rustic water tower with square blue neon lettering, and the restaurant/club itself is made over with exquisite attention to detail to resemble a giant mutant shotgun shack from the heart of some Dippity Dawg-inhabited Blues Country, slapped together out of rust-painted tin and hand-carved clapboards with sturdy hobnails and authentically-faux railroad tacks.

But we weren't there to appreciate the culinary subtleties of the pan-seared voodoo shrimp with rosemary cornbread or the legendary white chocolate banana bread pudding, nor to appreciate the bizarre Delta Illuminati decor (with the proscenium of the stage decorated with, from left to right, a kabbalistic symbol, the Magen David, the Virgin Mary, the Crescent and Star of Turkiye, Buddha, Elvis, a taiji, Indra, Ganesh, St. Peter, and a Templar's urn).

Oh, no. We were there for some much better-quality High Weirdness.

We were there to see the Weird One himself.

Yes. After years of collecting the Al-bums and watching AlTV and singing the songs on roadtrips and wishing for more videos and being accused of dressing like him, I finally got to see Weird Al Yankovic ... LIVE.

And, oh, it was an experience to be reckoned with.

We (being Blazer, Julieclipse, and myself) arrived in Orlando at the home of the Swing Cats, a swanky pad if ever there was one, and met up with La Famiglia and Charspider. After a brief nosh and a discussion of current events, we headed southwards for the nightmarish labyrinth of Downtown Disney where the House of Blues was coyly hidden behind the garish facade of Disney Quest¹.

We hopped into line and hooked up with the Cougar Clan ... capable, dangerous folk who often share in our illicit adventures. Despite the fact that we got there an hour and a half early for a show where the gates didn't open until 6:45, we were still stuck at the trailing end of a seemingly interminable line ... seemingly interminable, that is, until Charspider told me to glance back and look at the line that stretched the length of the House of Blues, down to the very wharfs of Downtown Disney, where people shoved each other into the turbid water and dueled with gaff hooks for right of place. Supposedly, Pairodox and Oregano and a few others were around, but we never saw hide nor hair of them.

Engaging in the age-old past-time of mob rule, the whole clan alternately left a few agents to hold the fort while others went out on errands, brazenly ignoring the chain that was meant to hold us in an orderly line and braving the dark looks of more studiously unmoving queue victims. Blazer, Charspider, Overdrive and I took our turn abroad and headed to the towering, thumping Virgin Megastore ("Because I just can't wait to get into that Virgin," as I explained to my mother) to pick up Weird Al CDs² and, in Overdrive's case, to spread a little bit of sacred chaos by toppling a rack of #1 Hits music to the floor.

We passed the time in idle conversation, determining that my father had never had sex with Jimi Hendrix, commenting on "'toonpunqs"³, checking the time, discussing the excellent standards of Disney bathrooms, foruming on Florida authors, checking the time again, chuckling over the people we could gloat to this about, speculating on the nature of carpentry as a profession people such as Jesus and Harrison Ford enter with only the hope to someday no longer be a carpenter, checking the time again, and finally expressing our group exultation as the line surged forward.

Of course, things were held up a little as a large security guard told Blazer and I we'd probably have to check our Cingular sling-packs (courtesy of the campus bookstore we both "worked" at once). The man at the checking table was checking almost nothing but cameras, so he was surprised to see two large bags offered to him. He asked if we were sure they needed to be checked, and then asked us who had to us to check them, and then shook his head and decided to check them against his apparent better judgment. This all took an undue amount of time, but fortunately Overdrive was there to guide us through the throng. Our clan had accreted like barnacles into a corner of the vast wood-floored pit before the stage where the crowd for the standing-room show would shortly be packed like crawfish in a tin. Our corner had both a pillar and two sets of stairs for us to accumulate on, so we held it against all comers, knowing that it gave us the dual advantage of higher ground and a protected rear. One always has to consider tactics.

"This," I thought to myself, "is where Tamburlaine would sit if he were at the House of Blues for a Weird Al concert."

And of course, we still had an hour and fifteen minutes before anyone would even consider walking on stage, so we spent the time drinking and observing the crowd and passing wry jokes and wondering about the implications of the weird mysticism of the decor (there were flames painted subtly on every flat surface, as well as the strange religious iconography. We talked a little with the nearby crowd members. We ate some chicken fingers (which should be served with fish shoulders and beef toes). We toasted the roadies who showed up on stage to place water cups or lay down duct tape.

And finally it was time.

Yes, it was time!

Time for an overweight comedian from Jacksonville to come berate us with his Jeff Foxworthy-derived Florida redneck act for an agonizing twenty-four minutes which included him commenting that he should "never have used that bit", him rubbing his face a lot, starting a joke over at least once, and talking with hecklers out of desperation.

Fortunately, he was dragged off to be shot, and then Al's show started a few moments later.

First, let me tell you ... it was LOUD.

I have adaptive ears, so after a few moments of thudding pressure threatening to cave my eardrums in and my hearing falling to a dull tidal crackling, my mutant healing kicked in, and I was fine for the rest of the night. Not so for Blazer and Charspider, who are still suffering from the affliction of the true music lover, tinnitis.

Al's show started off with a recorded version of his instrumental "Fun Zone" from the UHF sountrack blasting the audience into a state of annihilated glee.

Then there was a beautiful video package introduction featuring channel-changing shots from a doubled dozen cheesy monster horror flicks, complete with great sound bytes, finally fading into a montage of various talk show hosts and personalities introducing, or invoking the name, of Weird Al Yankovic.

And then it was on like neckbone. He started with "Couch Potato", coming out to the spotlight in his eerie Eminem garb and busting the mad rhymes that got the nerdy intelligentsia of the audience to hoppin'. True to the assertion made by Al later on in his videopackaged "celebrity interview" with Eminem, his version is a MUCH better song.

He drew the crowd's ire by saying that Orlando always made him think of Disney World, and then had them back in an instant by explaining that Disney World always made him think ... of leper colonies, before launching into "Party at the Leper Colony".

He had prop gags and costumes and crowd interactions. He played a medley of so many songs that I lost count, taking bits from every album. He brought out the key-tar and the headband for "Money for Nothing/Beverly Hillbillies". He and the band did the costumed "Smells like Nirvana" and "Eat It" and "Trash Day" and "All About the Pentiums" (complete with the strobes!) and he busted out the giant Talking Heads suit for one of my personal favorites which I was delighted to see, "Dog Eat Dog", even dusting off the Up-the-Corporate-Ladder Shuffle.

Al OWNED the crowd. We LOVED him. And he deserved our love. Al's band is a MACHINE. They've played together for so long (except in Ruben's case, and he's a certified super-genius, so he makes up for it) that they can read each other telepathically ... plus, they're all PHENOMENALLY good players.

Ah, and hear the crowd squeal with delight as Al gets on a red cap and jacket and is handed a pizza box for the heart-wrenching "Free Delivery".

Feel the roar as the crowd chants along to the UHF clips, "Wheel of Fish" (!) and "The Fire Hose" with the fervor of Catholics at Mass, or worse yet, Rocky Horror Picture Show attendees.

See the rapture on every countenance as we're given hilarious taped interviews, a brilliant video package for the polka medley, and Al's appearances on The Simpsons and Celebrity Deathmatch as well as his reference in King of the Hill ("Bobby, Al Yankovich blew his brains out in the late '80s when people stopped buying his albums. Is that the kind of guy you want as a role model?"), several of Al's spoof movie ads, and a bit of that ever-elusive "Stupid Haircut" video.

Taste the energy as Al dances across the stage in a flurry, as Steve Jay and Al exchange high kicks, as Jim West rocks his guitar until it smokes, as Bermuda Schwarz (while not getting a drum solo) enters the halls of the rhythm gods and Rubn gets on his sombrero and plays the "Mexican Hat Dance".

Ahhh, it was all so GOOOOOOOD!

And of course, Al managed to get on the "Fat" suit in record time for his traditional fake show-closing ... and he kept us waiting as the crowd argued over whether to chant "Al", "We Want More", or the bipartisan "We Want Al" before finally a dark cloaked figure entered the stage to "O Fortuna" and performed a bit of stagelight magic which summoned Al back to us in his Jedi robes, ready to lead the crowd in our traditional heart-warming sing-along of "The Saga Begins", to which I contributed my proud, towering Zippo flame as we swayed back and forth before Al shed his robes and closed the evening with "Yoda" ... and the Cant.⁴

And then it was all over.

...

Almost.

(Heh-heh. Al-most.)

For you see, La Famiglia has ... connections. These connections have friends. These friends can make things happen. And when these things happen, they ... happen because of my family's connections' friends, I suppose.

At any rate, my aunt and my mom had both known bassist Steve Jay in days of yore, and used that leverage to score us ...

Nine ...

BACKSTAGE ...

PASSES ...

TO SEE AL!

Ahhhhhh, yeah.

That's the stuff.

So we got to hang out in the posh House of Blues dressing room. I got the band (except for Bermuda Schwarz, who was busy being chained to a floor somewhere, or doing whatever it is drummers do in their free time) to autograph my copy of In 3-D (which I will let you mere humans see for only five tons of flax) and I ate some sweet noshes and had some Perrier and met Steve Jay's mom and thanked him for the opportunity ...

Oh, right.

And there was some guy hanging around back there, too.

Seemed like a nice chap. Quiet, fairly popular with the small horde of twenty-or-so people back there, had a big salad with his name on it on the table. Used a Sony Vio and was videochatting with his wife when I peeked around the door of the dressing room, talking about missing his four-month-old daughter and planning five-day breaks into the tour to get a chance to fly home and see her.

I gave him my card.

Yes.

Weird Al Yankovic now knows that I am indeed his huckleberry.

And he was very patient when our digital camera didn't work right away.

And ... a bit later in the evening, when the initial throng died out and there were just a few of us chatting with the band in a relaxed sort of way, I saw Al step out a side door just as an echoing boom sounded over Disney World.

I followed him out and found him on a side stairwell of the House of Blues, leaning on a balcony and kneeling up on a bench while he watched the fireworks shooting across Disney for the close of the evening's festivities.

So I sat next to him and watched the fireworks with him.

Just me ... and Al.

...

This world has very little better ways to pass a Saturday night to offer me.

And while I did have this great tirade for Independence Day planned, just thinking about my good times with Al and the gang have mellowed me considerably.

I'm going to listen to my autographed CD and think again about the time I got to spend with my favorite musician in all the world.

Later I'll talk about the damned outrages of society.

Later.

Non temetis messor,

\/\/heel

---

¹What's most disturbing about Disney Quest ... this five-story arcade full of various virtual-reality games ... is that there's a little prototype VR ride out front, some sort of flight simulator that spins around and upside down and rolls over and does all the usual range of tricks. Actually, that in and of itself is not too disturbing, but what IS disturbing is that there's two dummies sitting in it, grinning idiotically ... and I didn't notice that they were mannequins until I noticed they were still riding with the same fixed stares and doped grins when we left the House of Blues at midnight. You just learn to expect a certain grade of clientele at Disney World.

²I picked up In 3-D, the only Al-bum I did not previously own in some form or another ... I have almost all of them on tape, except for Poodle Hat, and while I never technically bought Dare to be Stupid, I do have a dub courtesy of Junglefreak, which I consider simply a placeholder for the inevitable day to come when I buy the CD. A good record, In 3-D. It has a number of sorely under-appreciated hits, such as Al's "Safety Dance" parody, "Brady Bunch" and the excellent "Polkas on 45", which polkovers such songs as "Hey, Joe", "Hey, Jude", "Smoke on the Water" and Berlin's "Sex (I'm a)".

³You know, those little coquettish punquettes (I've yet to see a male variant, though I'm sure they exist) that have the absurdly bright hair done in a vibrant anime style, with clothes that are splashed with garish colors and usually absurdly big shoes and ridiculously cute accessories. They're like rebellious Powerpuff Girls. Love 'em. It's a style I'm wholly in favor of. Like punks, but with less spikes, less grime and more color. Like ravers, but with actual self-respect.

⁴Good luck following along even after reading it. These guys move FAST. I couldn't see more than two people in the crowd following along, and they were just barely keeping up. But it's the Secret to High Weirdness, so study it well.

*****

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