Hi AZ here. I'm really busy with some personal business and don't have much to share of any value right not other than I will be spinning tunes at LIARS CLUB 1665 W Fullerton Chicago on June 17 for the Type O Negative Release party. So I'll allow Brigette to be the first person since Moe to write something of interest to you all. So without further adeau here's Lil Miss Motor Booty..................... Since the amazing Alex was unable to attend Tuesday’s The Cramps show, I wanted to take a moment to review the show for all of you on his behalf. There was much to see and much to rant about, so here it goes… When the legendary silent, sneering Poison Ivy of The Cramps stops playing her guitar, sashays to the front of the stage, stares at the front row and yells “Stop it! You’re fucking up the show!” You know there’s trouble. The Tuesday night gig started off slowly with an average, but fun, rockabilly band, The Phenoms. Then a less than acceptable second act came on, Mr. Quintron and Miss Pussycat, opening with a nonsensical puppet show featuring an alligator (who sold Cajun snowballs) and termites (playing in a band), followed by Mr. Quintron’s mixture of Southern snake-religion organ playing, drum beats, and rave/trance-like music accompanied by Miss Pussycat’s maraca shaking and shrilling voice—which completely bored the audience for 45 minutes. When The Cramps finally took the stage, it was mayhem from minute one. The group of pseudo-punk underagers standing next to me in the front row were rolling hard on X (the Vicks smeared under their noses was an obvious giveaway) and guzzling PBRs. (I secretly hoped they would all dehydrate and pass out.) On the other side of me were a large number of cute Betty Page-looking girls and lots of burly guys who simply wanted to enjoy the show close-up (much like me and my company). When the first song started, the wasted rugrats started a nasty, senseless mosh pit. Now, a bit of pushing, shoving, and bumping into each other is to be expected in the front row of any rock concert. But this show was different. The immature, disrespectfully blasted kids were moshing into the Betty Page girls as if they were at an all-male Pantera show. The burly dudes were not happy either. I saw one big guy angrily choking a skinny punk sporting a limp mohawk. The kid thought it was funny. About four or five songs into the set, guys with scrawny bare chests and bad tattoos starting crowd surfing. Most of us were trying to pull them down, not pass them along, to protect people from getting hurt. I saw at least two guys get punched and kicked for surfing. I also got a big black combat boot to my button nose as well. Boy, did I pick the wrong night to wear my glasses instead of contacts! Okay, now it is a known fact that people are not supposed to get on the stage during a band’s performance. Lux Interior is especially weary of fans in his space—he probably doesn’t want anyone shoving that mic down his throat further than he can or slapping his wiener more than he does. Also, The Cramps have not played a show in Chicago for five or six years. These fans were hungry for them! Knowing the type of crowd this ticket was sure to attract, the House of Blues security should have planned better. I have never been to an HOB show where there wasn’t a barricade dividing the audience from the stage. This is the space typically designated for photographers and security. Since there was NO SECURITY in sight at the beginning of the show, The Cramps’ wiry roadie was the only soul nearby, so he ended up fending off dozens of blitzed, overzealous fans jumping the stage. The tiny Trent Reznor looking dude (who could not have been more than 5’9”, 130 lbs) was picking guys up over his head and throwing them off the stage and back into the mosh pit. This was about all he could do with no other backup! The HOB security was nowhere in sight for at least twenty minutes. Eventually, the roadie was pulled by the mob of moshers into the audience, where the assholes continued to rip off his shirt, punch him and (from what I understand from a very reliable source) had to go to the hospital for a broken nose. Once the HOB security FINALLY stepped in, they pulled the roadie back on the stage. As Lux was trying to help pull roadie boy up, the rabid dicks then pulled Lux into the crowd! He was able to quickly pop back up to the stage since the HOB security was now present to help him out. But when he did, he furiously tossed his microphone stand, which hit Poison Ivy in the back, scaring the shit out of her. She was so pissed, she looked as if she was trying to unplug her axe and call it a night. At this point me, my sister, and brother-in-law headed away from the stage and toward the front door, sensing an uncomfortable uprising. Lux, in his rock ‘n’ roll wisdom probably saved the evening by cracking a few jokes, and saying “I don’t even know what to say… Should I sing ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’ right now?” Followed by “Would all the assholes please wipe their asses and get out, so we can finish the show!?” The rest of the show went on, but I do not think anyone was able to fully enjoy it after all the ruckus that went down. And do you know what the biggest insult was? I watched the HOB security with great disappointment—they escorted only two of the party crashers out of the show. And those were the two Poison Ivy and the roadie pointed out to them. I could have pointed out a minimum of twenty more! Lux admitted he was so rattled he forgot the playlist. Poison was clearly pissed for the rest of the show, and I don’t mean in that sultry scowling way she usually looks. Still, she tore it up with her fierce riffs and Lux entertained with a few cleverly sarcastic and dark remarks. Best of all, he made fun of all of the “stuffy” people in the balcony and opera box seats. I couldn’t have agreed with him more! The “upper tier” looked like a bunch of bored, voyeuristic yuppies dressed in drab Donna Karen, Polo shirts, and overpriced retro eyewear (that they seem to think makes them look hip). They just stood there stiffly as they looked down their noses at the REAL fans. Yes, it is nice to have the occasional “VIP” view, but I dare any of those haughty rat bastards to stand down where I was in the front row, with my 5’1” frame, braving the overzealous fans and ear bleeding speakers. THAT is what a rock show is about! And they didn’t get to see what color Poison’s panties were. I did. - Brigette