First the bad part. The venue itself is a piece of shit, and I hope someone who works there reads this and feels personally responsible. The acoustics, particularly for bands with vocalists (like the first two acts), are miserable; the sound gets five feet off the stage and then disappears into the ether, never to be seen or heard from again. All that remains is a convoluded mess of unpleasant noise. This was evidenced after the first act, Ceci Bastida, which sounded like it could have been good had it not sounded like the entire band was singing/playing into a cotton ball. They were followed by an even worse act, Brother Reade, a white man who ran around the stage rapping and screaming unintelligible things into the mike until the crowd literally started to boo him. Myself included. The only redeeming quality was electro-nerd Walter Meego, who spun sick beats throughout the disgustingly bad rhymes. And finally, they got off the stage, the clouds parted, and the audience began to sense Gillis lurking in the wings, ready to make his grand entrance.
It started with a chant. A soft, slow, crescendo of a chant, "Giiiiiiirrrrrllllll Taaaaallllllkkkkk...Giiiirrrrlllll Taaaalllllkkkkk." The stage was dark, the crowd was pushing, surging, swelling. The chant got faster and faster and faster, until the entire mass of people was yelling and swaying in one giant body, chomping at the bit to get a taste of the man that has mastered the art of the mash-up. And then he was there, a 27-year goofy white dude with a white tee, red sweats and unkempt hair, ready to get the party started.
In order to explain the ensuing two hours, I will try to convey the things that occured, the music that was played, and the general state of things as best as possible. Gillis is famous for his live performances because of the sheer volume of energy from the crowd. He crowd surfs and strips down to pants (and only pants) on a regular basis. Giant ballons full of confetti are thrown, leaf-blowers shoot toilet paper into the hoardes, massive inflatable shapes are tossed into the audience, allowing for ample amounts of play. Gillis also encourages people to get on-stage and dance, though this venue dissuaded that and therefore had to deal with copious amounts of rabid, drugged-up fans clawing/jumping/fighting their way to the stage. It was utter mayhem, a big sweaty crowd of dancing happy people pulsing to a montage of oldies, top 40, electonica, alternative, rap, and plenty of hip-hop. And perhaps the most poignant part of the evening was the consistent sampling of the late King of Pop, from the Jackson 5 to his later work; when the power temporarily went out, Gillis got things back on track again with "Don't Stp Till You Get Enough."
There were a couple of songs off Feed the Animals but the majority of the concert consisted of new mash-ups, which made it feel a bit like Christmas morning. The crowd was a bit too rowdy for my taste (let's just say I got hit in the head with a flying trash can, another fault of the worthless venue and their worthless security), but I'll be damned if that kept me from having one helluva time. It was a frenzy of energy and fantastic music. The bands I remember: The Bangles, Ludacris, Phoenix, Lil' Wayne, Kelly Clarkson, Journey, Lady Gaga, Beyonce, N.W.A., Vanilla Ice, Nine Inch Nails, Jay-Z, and probably hundreds of others. And when the night came to an end, the rhymes of Notorious B.I.G. faded into the piano line of Elton John's "Tiny Dancer" and Gillis jumped onto his platform to lead us all in a sway, while informing us that California is simply the best place to get a good crowd together for a good time. We know Gregg, we know.
Hold me closer tiny dancer, count the headlights on the highway, lay me down in sheets of linen, you had a busy day today...
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