The Automatik

The Howlin’ Wolf
November 16, 2001

I will admit that I have never owned a Stereolab album. I’ve heard plenty enough played by friends, and that is part of the reason I went to the show. The other part is that there is a paucity of shows with interesting, non-local bands on the weekends and I didn’t want to miss out on a potential great time.

The opening act, Rebecca Gates (ex-Spinanes) was actually quite pleasant, if a little bit too mellow for my tastes. She has a pretty, husky voice and the songs were enjoyable. After her set, I went to the ladies’ room where I encountered two adorable red haired gals hawking underwear! “Papriqua and Sinamon” whispered the pink, heart-shaped labels attached to thongs, bikinis and tank tops with transfer photos of Nick Cave, Mick Jagger and David Bowie. Sadly, there were no undergarments with Brian Jones’ photo, but I bought a pair anyway. Sarah and Angelika were very sweet and friendly and their lingerie enthusiasm reminded me of those bygone days of selling my fanzine on the streets of the French Quarter.

By now the Wolf was getting fairly crowded. I found a spot about halfway back from the stage, near what would turn out to be many annoying people. I don’t understand this. Why do people who are aggravating pains in my ass have to like the same bands I do? This really bothers me, and even more so when I consider that this is apparently a universal phenomenon. Two completely dour and irritating women spent the entirety of the pre-show period getting on my nerves. They never laughed, joked, or even smiled, but they did prattle on with the most grating whiny voices in the world. How do they get through their miserable little lives? I was highly offended when the tall one with the spaghetti strap tank top and felt hat with a grosgrain bow started ragging on the girls selling underwear in the bathroom. Yeah, like you have great taste in fashion, since you seem to base yours on Annie Hall. She also did that thing that tall, rude people do when they want the whole place to themselves: adopt a wide-legged, wide-armed stance and subtly bump into you, making you feel intimidated and unwanted. WHY?!??!?!

This unpleasant situation was exacerbated by the fact that the Wolf was having problems with its sound system. What should have been a half hour break turned into an hour and then some. My feet were killing me, it was hot and there was Annie Hall to contend with. I looked over to see the group of semi-obnoxious hipster types crouched down on the floor snorting coke off of their car keys. Does no one have any shame anymore? A few moments later I heard “blah blah blah Studio 54 blah blah blah” and I rolled my eyes. I was seriously considering leaving when the band finally took the stage. I was just starting to enjoy the second or third song, despite the fact that I could only catch glimpses of Laetitia Sadier’s head and a few colored lights, when yet another fly landed in the ointment.

A tall, blond guy, who could only be described as Craig Kilborn sidled in front of me with his two girlfriends and started white boy “dancing,” shaking his hips and pouting. Dude, it’s not a Cowboy Mouth show. (For you non-New Orleans residents, Cowboy Mouth is the local, beer-drinkin’, frat boy-beloved, good time party band.) I said, “Excuse me, you’re taller than me, could you stand behind me?” He thought about it for a second, stroked his chin and said, “No, I don’t think I’m going to do that.” I pointed my finger at his smug, Abercrombie and Fitch face and said, “I’ve been waiting here for TWO HOURS and you refuse to move?” He nodded. “Fine!” I shouted, physically shoving him aside to stand in front of him. “I’ll move in front of YOU!” I apologized to the people whose backs I semi-lunged into saying, “Sorry, there’s a big asshole behind me.” People were laughing, possibly at me, but more probably at what a dick this guy was. A nice girl next to me shook her head and we bonded over our disbelief of the lack of concert etiquette. We laughed again a few minutes later when yet another couple elbowed their way in front of me without so much as an “excuse me.” I declared, “I hate people,” and she nodded and agreed.

All that ridiculous business aside, the show was quite fantastic. Laetitia has one of the most lovely voices I’ve ever heard and she’s absolutely stunning, in that brunette French way. The light show was amazing, rivaled only by the one Air uses on their current tour. They left after about 45 minutes, but the audience’s stomping, whooping and clapping quickly drew them back for an encore. The final song of the evening was “French Disko”, a wonderful piece that veered from lilting to frenzied to prog rock and back again at least four times. I haven’t heard that much glorious feedback and self-indulgent noodling since Redd Kross used to drag out “Linda Blair” for 15 minutes. And Redd Kross didn’t have a Moog, either.

Although my CD addiction continues to threaten the stability of my checkbook, I might just have to make an exception and get some Stereolab. And maybe a felt hat with a grosgrain ribbon…