Ok, rather than do one of those, "yeah I saw Fishbone and was fucking amazing and goddam wow!" reviews I thought it would be better to make it sort of a short story. A little light reading literature to entertain the boneheads across the land with the little inside stories everyone on the list generally experiences with our crew of Angelo and co. So, in the words of the DPs, "Pull up a chair grab a seat have a listen..."

New Mexico is hot in the summer, damn hot. And dry. It kinda takes the moisture outta your lungs. Long or short road trips with the windows down will leave ya parched. So after failing to recruit but one new Bonehead-to-be and hopping in the blue cruiser, Santa Fe was in sight at the bottom of the big hill. It suddenly got a little cooler, which made for a perfect late afternoon drink on the proch setting at my buddie's house in a barrio of Santa Fe. It was a vodka sobe, raspberry. Tasty. Fishbone is in town, a toast. Cruising the backroads to the famed plaza of Santa Fe, filled with it's turquoise everything and pueblo casas. Small Mexican food joint serves up some suprisingly good burritos a la gringo. The club is just up the street.
"Prepare yourselves.... I've had religious experiences at Fishbone shows y'all." Enter drug of choice, if you desire.
A line of people waiting out the front door and around the corner of the joint. Damn. Didn't expect this on a Monday night in New Mexico, after just about zero advertising. Orale. Doors still hadn't opened. The opener, this AKP thing (we'll get back to that in a second), was setting up. We went around to the back and pulled up a seat at the neighboring bar. An odd mix of yuppies, hippies, college kids, rez dogs, and trust fund babies. I'm on the list man, no need to mess with the line. My flyering volunteer-ization had gained me freebies. Now this friend who we met in Santa Fe is no normal midwest boy transplanted to New Mexico. He is big city boy, let's get loco and enjoy the hell outta whatever it is that we end up doing right now. Fun cat to hang with. Me and the newbie use the passes to get in after letting the line die, Midwest boy walks in the back door with no one even asking for a pass. He has that kinda luck. It's ok, Fishbone gets a gaurantee at these clubs.
Rum and cokes all the way around, please. AKP begins like an hour late. It's ok, it's still early. Plenty of time for the boys to get their groove on. Is it just me or does this band like take a riff from every band from the past twenty years and then try to "bust rhymes" over the top of it? I heard some Edie Breckell, Black Sabbath, and Metallica. Interesting. How did this band end up doing a full tour with our crew? I was a bit irked as there was a very good chance my band woulda opened this show to add a little local support. But they couldn't put three bands on the bill on a Monday night. hiss. Angelo cruises by, looks over, stops, and goes, "oh hey man! I haven't seen you for a while." "Yeah well you all haven't passed through here for a while! Whattup, man?" We chat briefly. He asks me what the name of my band was again. heh. Like he'd ever remember. :> Said the tour was going well. He was DJing between sets
(this activity will also come back briefly) and lemme tell ya, bro is quite an MC. He had the joint juking to Ozomatli, freaking to Zap Mama, getting slinky with Tricky, feeling mad irie with old school Jamaica, and two-stepping with big band. Dull selection it was not.
Real impressed with the turn-out. I woulda never guessed this many people would come out in this little town on a Monday night. I think Santa Fe may actually be hipper than Albuquerque, although that's not hard to be. ;> Musta been 200-300 or so in a club that doesn't hold more than 400-500. Peoples is rocking out to DJ Angelo, not a care, the equipment getting set up, there appear the members off to the side. Some people even start chanting the old school "FIIIIIISHHHH BOOOOONNEE." I'm like, "damn, props to Santa Fe." Aw yeah. My buddy pretty soon has half the floor dancing to his midwest interpretation of getting down to drum n' bass electronica shit. It is fun as hell for like the first 15 minutes. Puttin' on the groove pants..... And then it became mega confusion.

20 minutes, 30 minutes, 45 minutes. Jesus. An hour, sound guys are stumbling around the stage like defeated dogs after a street fight. Tour manager looking about ready to castrate somebody. I ask one of the guys standing around in disbelief what the hell is going on. "It is a technical nightmare already." You got to be fucking kiddin' me. Ok dude, Channel one is mic 1, stage left monitor is Norwood's, need the bass there, maestro. The drum mics, yeah those need to be turned on. That main vocal mic in the front, yeah that need to be pretty loud in the monitors. Unreal. 1 and a half hours. It's 12:45, people are heading out to the door to ask for a refund. Angelo is still spinning tunes!! Dude, leave the DJ stand and get this shit organized!! Nuff respect but people started to blame the band cuz they were just standing around, or like Angelo, playing up in the DJ booth. People did get pissed. I lean against a post in disbelief. They are not even going to play. What the hell is going on?! Is this the band's sound guys? Or is it the result of a dumb-ass local soundguy who got way overpaid for coming tonight? It's going on 1 o'clock. Angelo is standing in the DJ stand arms up, almost ready to punch somone. He looked really upset. But then..... drums!!! Whoa, that's a guitar..... Hey, that's music coming off the stage. A funky ass Norwood bass. I dunno what they hell just happened over the past 2 hours but this is a Fishbone concert all of the sudden. Walt meanders out, shades, pot grin, trumpet in hand, smirking to the crowd. On bounces Mr. Moore. We want the funk.
The two Dirty Walt tunes were tight. I was real impressed with Norwood's slap madness this night, as in even better than his usual destruction of all competitors. What were the songs... Who Do You Believe, and, Do You Have a Mind of Your Own. Phat. Angelo looks beyond angry at the sound guy. Volume, muthafucka, volume! It begins. I cannot remember the order. I was in a mild trance. They got cooking around 1:00. Bartime is supposed to be 1:30 or so. Well, let's roll with it, kick this place in the arse. Behavior Control Technician, with a sick little jam at the intro. Pressure. Angelo messing with the theramin in vain. Mosh pit, yeah man. Skankin to the Beat, the oldest of the old skyah. This place is getting a little bit loco, man. The people have left the line out the door and lept to the front of the floor. New shit that I don't know the name to. I am impressed. Sick ass horn line over this start and stop machine gun type groove line. Know the tune? Damn. Nice to hear some shit I have never heard in m'life. Karmi Tsunami with Mr. Steward layin' down a sick
country fried beat over the hyper speed ranchera shit. I gained much respect for John at this show. He was layin' it down yet hardly seemed like he was moving. You know how he plays. Expending mad energy but hardly twitching. It was really cool to see the band do new shit and not stick so much to the old, old stuff. They gotta show off the new groove. The funk they hit Monday night was ill, not to mention some sick ass reggae, dub, type jams. Shakey Ground was one of the tightest Fishbone song performances I've ever seen. Norwood Fisher. My despair has turned to awe at seeing a band some consider dead every few months (myself included every so often) put on a little rock music 101 course for us all.Spacey dedicates it again to Eddie Hazel, thee man.
Irie riddims, slips smoothly into the hit that never will be, The Suffering. Now I often think programed emotion can sap a performance when it's just cheesy or scripped. And then there's our man Angelo about ready to like shed tears and he howls through 4 verses hitting some soul notes I've rarely heard him hit, way up there. Curtis Mayfield style. I was seriously taken aback by the display. It was intense. What a jam. What the fuck is wrong with US radio? Alcoholic breaks the hyptonization. Yeah, that's a good following tune to that little, make ya wanna take a drink or 20 kicker. I wish I could write down the expression Angelo gives Walter in the middle of this tune. His suspenders come off of course, his pants are about to drop and he doesn't seem to notice. Scotch and 800. Gives Walt a "fuck..... dude" look I shant forget soon. Damn! Another new tune about Heat of Anger or something. Punk rocka momma. Nice jam. Ma & Pa. Oh yes, man. Some insane horn blast a la Monkey Dick but can't place the tune. Tight. Damn tight. If I could give a show this good after being so pissed at the soundguy I would begin to understand what this whole thing is really all about. I look forward to doing that. Back from the brink of a destroyed night this crew had just stunned the crowd back to _realization_. I dunno how long they even ended up playing, but it was "a tease" in the words of the newly christened Bonehead amiga of mine. She needed more. A bigger dose, if you will. Converted. Ending the night with Bonin in Ze Boneyard was fitting cuz I really thought they were dead for a couple of hours that night and then they rose like The freakin' Crow to kick some serious ass. I have never seen Norwood beat the crap outta those 5 strings (in 16 times) like he did on the middle of Bonin' Monday night. They get cut, it is straight up 2 am. The bar had the good sense to at least let them go full on until the place absolutely needs to be vacated. John and Spacey apologize to the crowd for the sick ass delay and thank everyone for stickin' around and all. Nice gesture. My friends are like, "damn." After almost leaving the place in shame I felt like a proud parent with the new convert and one time 9 years ago I saw them, midwest buddy of mine. That was a fun night. I see Angelo and say, "ya know what dude, people don't say this enough, but thanks man. That shit was unreal, after all the sound shit to come out there and play with that emotion." He's just like "yeah man. Right on." and gets carted away by whoever it was that was trying to get his 15 seconds of attention. Someday the music biz
will recognize genius.

We take the backstreets back home, post-frenzy buzz.

Jeff Duneman