The Automatik

Kenny’s Key West
February 10, 2002

“The more you drink, the better we sound!”
-Vanilla Ice, Lundi Gras 2002

I am fully aware that by even admitting that I attended this show, much less reviewing it, I am ruining all hopes of possessing anything approaching “indie cred.” But it was free and I had to support JK, who was stuck selling beer there the whole night. JK, who has described Kenny’s Key West with zest and accuracy in many of her diary entries, so I won’t even bother to try and top her. Suffice it to say it’s the bottom of the white trash barrel, my friends.

Mr. Ice (née Rob Van Winkle) wasn’t even supposed to begin until midnight, so we slogged through nearly three hours of passable dance/techno music and Heineken. As it was, he didn’t even get started until almost 12:30. Guess he wanted to evoke a sense of “mystery,” and create a “fervor” in the crowd. Or maybe he was just swilling a 40 ounce in his tour bus.

“Wassup N’awwwwwliiiiins!” he bellowed, strutting onto the stage with the requisite visor and goatee and a Suicidal Tendencies t-shirt. Mike Muir needs to sue, pronto. The show was eardrum-vaporizingly loud. My feet were vibrating. I had to put my fingers in my ears to protect any chances I had of ever hearing good music again. Ice’s “sound” was like the Happy Days version of the 50s: completely emasculated, banal and intolerable. I don’t even like Limp Bizkit, Slipknot and their ilk, but this shit was bad, bad, bad. “You party people know what time it is!” he crowed, introducing the next song, “I’m talkin’ ’bout 4:20!” God help us all. He continued to “rap,” accompanied by another guy and DJ Zero, who he claimed had been with him for ten years. My immediate thought was, “That poor sap.” Vanilla Ice’s bland whiteness was so overpowering that he’d freeze-dried the African American right out of those other two guys.

Other key phrases included, “I love the dirty south!”, “Go white boy, go white boy, GO!” and “Oh my gawsh, oh my gawsh!” Even “word to your mother” was trotted out several times, as was the “Ice Ice Baby” song we all know and loathe, but with a dash of testosterone to squelch any “Vanilla Ice is a pussy” sentiment that may have snuck in somewhere. Sorry, Ice, it didn’t work; that song still sucks. He actually sells albums? Unbelievable. He even did a little human beatbox action, which surprisingly, started off decently but quickly spiraled down into horror, until he was actually chanting FreddieKruegerFreddieKrueger. “You guys are crazy!” he screamed, trying to kiss the crowd’s ass. And sadly, they fell for it. Everyone was shrieking along, fist-pumping and jumping around, booty dancing with a vengeance, and falling for every trick in Ice’s work-the-crowd bag.

By the time he’d invited half the crowd on the stage with him, JK had been relegated to hawking jello shots to those unlucky enough to remain on the floor. Completely surreal. These sad sacks flopped around, sodden and stupid and completely in their glory. Since Mardi Gras was the next day, he started evoking its debauchery by yelling, “Show me the titties! Okay, ladies you gotta repre-SENT!” and flailing the type of shit-eating grin that only guys with minuscule penises can. I looked around for some ladies, but didn’t see any, so I’m not sure whom he was addressing. He also invited those in attendance with “skills” to come up and “flow” as it was “freestyle time.” I’ll spare you from a description of those folks except to say their skills would definitely NOT pay the bills.

Mercifully, the show ended fairly quickly, and the regular DJs took over. I crept over to the bathroom where I heard the following conversation. I wish I were making this up or even exaggerating:

Fan #1: “I just touched his pee pee under his pants.”

Fan #2: (in utter envy and awe) “Wow.”

Fan #3: (who looked like an ex-porn star) “Girl, never wash your hand again.”

Fan #1: “I mean, I love Vanilla Ice, but I don’t know where that cock’s been.”

This was almost directly followed by a new girl, her eyes swimming in Ecstasy, touching another girl’s hair and cooing, “I just had to come over here and tell you how beautiful you are…” I scooted out before I would be forced to endure any bi-curious action.

The rest of the night was, as JK has described it, “an odd mixture of ex-cons and hussies.” But it sure was entertaining and educational, cautionary even. I’ll say this, Vanilla Ice could go to sleep for 120 years and he’d still be one of the biggest buffoons on the planet.