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I’ve Ween the light
Concert proves to be a healing experience
MARK BALDRIDGE is a
senior English mqjor.
The night before I saw Ween a
woman I had never met before told me
the one about the guy who lost every
thing but die Porsche:
Seems this guy was moving across
country in a rental van, towing his
Porsche behind, when the truck caught
fire (this point in the story is a little
vague) and all his earthly possessions
were destroyed
The fire also severed the towing
link and the Porsche, cut free on level
ground, was discovered some miles
behind, sitting peacefully, waiting.
Since the fire was due to a flaw in
the van itself, the company paid our
hero off, leaving him with a large sum
of cash and his fancy car.
The story kind of begs a moral, or
at least a moral response. Like you are
expected to say, either, “How terrible!”
or “At least he had the Porsche.” Or
even something like - and this is cru
cial - “I’d take the money and drive to
Vegas!”
As if, somehow, being cut loose
from one’s whole life, being bought off
by some embarrassed megacorp,
would be a good thing, if only you had
a nice enough set of wheels to go with
the carefree lifestyle.
“Me,” I said, “I’d take the money
and drive to wherever Ween
were play ii
The
morn
ing
before I saw Ween, I woke up a trifle
deaf in one ear. I was not alarmed - it’d
been happening to me intermittently
for a couple weeks - but I was con
cerned with being able to hear at the
concert that evening.
I had shelled out 16 bucks I could
ill afford for a sold-out show that would
be my first national act since I saw
They Might Be Giants in 1992 in
Columbus, Ohio, and I’d be damned if I
was gonna let any old ear keep me
from hearing in stereo.
I’d previously flushed them with
warm water - no potatoes growing in
my cochlea, thank you. I’d tried soak
ing, I’d tried scrubbing but I still could
n’t hear.
“Fluid behind the eardrum,” a wiz
ened old gnome of a retiree physician
had intoned. “Try an antihistamine.”
I had tried antihistamines, diuretics
and ignoring the problem for days on
end but nothing at all had worked.
But this morning, of ail mornings, I
was more determined and I brought out
the big guns:
Alka-seltzer Cold Relief Medicine.
Ever had it? A dangerous chemical,
no doubt Plop, plop, it says. Fizz, fizz.
And you are supposed to swallow that?
Who wants to consume some noisy
concoction?
Though I did not take the night
time formula (a one-way ticket to lulla
by land akin to cold-pressed morphine)
I did make the mistake of drinking a
beer some 8 hours later.
When the inevitable
, zombification set in, I
was only two or three
hours away from seeing
Ween.
In the hours before
I saw Ween,
I
explored the increasingly crowded war
rens ofThe Royal Grove with mount
ing anxiety. It’s a funky place, the
Grove, and I don’t mean funky down in
the soul.
I mean funky smellin’.
But I’m pretty comfortable in the
funk and I don’t think that would have
done it 1 mean, what was this sudden
cold chill of fear that had begun to sink
beneath my placid withdrawal.
Could it be, was it, that after all
these years I was afraid of Ween? Or of
the half-naked teenagers who in the
heat and crowd and stink had begun to
chant, shaking fists like under-age ter
rorists, “Ween! Ween! WEEN!”
Was it die noise, the heat, the storm
building outside, electricity in the air?
The band hit the stage and I confess
that, though Gene and Dean and all the
rest of them came out, guns blazing,
still I was just a little wrapped 15) in my
insulation. Shock maybe. , i;
I looked down from my balcony
seat and the crowd was writhing... or
was hat just a trick of the hellish heat?
The bull-necked security team
tossed water and ice on the steaming
dancers, threw crowd surfers violently
to he floor and hustled them away.
And he rock-gods-who-are Ween
tore through country tunes, ripped
R&B riffs, tagged the funky rhythms
and spouted the mad gibberish for
which hey are so rightly revered.
And looking down, I felt suddenly
happy, wide awake in the surround
sound.
Wih he power of heir music,
Ween had tom through he insulation,
cracked he carapace isolating me in
he crowd.
Burned me to he ground and left
me standing, dazed and bemused, by
he souped-up automobile of heir inde
scribable music.
I could hear again; I was
healed.
“Yeah! Yeah!
Yeah!” I shouted,
my voice lost in
he careening
Ween.