TUESDAY, 18 JULY, 2000, PHILADELPHIA

I don’t really go to concerts all that much, and rarely “big events.” Like, maybe the Purple Rain tour in 1984 and that might have been the last stadium type thing that I attended. But I couldn’t turn down last night’s concert just over the bridge in stinky, tacky New Jersey. Psychedelic Furs Go-Go’s B-52’s For $10? Bring your own blanket and stake out a place on the sprawling lawn, not too crowded, have a bucket o’ shitty American pissner beer for $6, some dubious concert food, and a gay ole’ time with a bunch of friends? I cannot say no. Here’s the lo-down on some of my favourite 80’s bands: Whatzizface from Psych Furs sounds exactly the same and to hear him scowling along to “Pretty in Pink” live inspired the Molly Ringwald dance amongst my little côterie with gay abandon. You know the Molly Ringwald dance. Oh, yes you do, don’t deny it. That “dance” she does on the stairs in the library about halfway through “The Breakfast Club”. The alternating pit-sniffing dance with the kicky footwork? Yah, that one. Go-Go’s really haven’t aged a day in 22 years. Which is a damn frightening thought. Belinda Carlisle still looks 23. Though her age has caught up with her in her voice. Looks like a Belinda, sounds like a Kim Carnes. Okay, look, I’m sorry — everyone loves to dis the Go-Go’s, but how can you hate them when they still have Jane Weidlen??? So kewwwt! She asked the guards to “evict” some heckling fellow. You can’t help but clutch your chest with adoration and shout, “Oh Jane, you sweet, kewwwt thing! It’s not ‘evict’, it’s ‘remove’ or ‘escort’ ya little cute sassy cute cute thing you!” And the B-52’s. What can one say? One of my all-time faves. I’m not really made of groupie timber — don’t really care to stalk the artists whom I read or listen to. But Kate Pierson. Mmm-hmm. Break me off a piece o’ dat, mmm-kay? Looks like she could spare some too cos girlfriend’s all fat n’ shit now too, but that makes not a whit of difference to me. Long as she still has that voice and the big hair, I’m her fuck puppet. And dear ole’ Fred. Fred Schneider, looking more and more like a dishonourably discharged aging queen marine, and I fell in love with the B-52’s all over again. “Hello Philly!” screamed Fred at the opening, as we sat there in New Jersey revving up our woop-woop motors for the show. Some dude behind us whines loudly, “Whaadabout New Jurrzaay?” “…and all you other people,” added Fred with distaste. I want to know them. Earlier when the cheeseball radio-promo people gabbed on stage during set changes, they brought out a dude dressed in a giant lobster outfit. Silly. Later, my friend saw the lobster in the toilets. (“Hung?” I asked. “Crustacean,” he said.) The lobster was majorly pissed off. “Fuckin’ B-52’s are such bitches. They didn’t want me on stage during ‘Rock Lobster’.” “Duh, look at you.”