Opeth at the Wiltern was the purest example of turning a horrible experience in to a fond one with the assistance of alcohol.
We arrived to the Venue around 730 to a crowd that wrapped around the building like Lord Red Dragon's arms on a teenage boy's waist. To our cringe worthy surprise the end of the line was occupied by a cadre of cholos sporting bandanas and jeans baggier than my eyes after a Friday night bender. Did we get the wrong date?!? After double checking our tickets we decided to lay low for a bit, while drinking two nice hefty bottles of Alesmith's Speedway Stout. As the aroma of the stout hit my snout, and the cooling nutty taste pasted my lips, all became right in the world once again. That was until we actually made it to the venue and grimaced with a fury the world has not seen since the time Tone picked up a pair of drumsticks. We made way to our seats which were encircled by pre-teen tots waving their Ghost Reverie albums high in the air, while shouting obscenities in to the night along the lines of, "Mikael I hear you play Badminton", "Martin will you marry me?", and my personal fave, "Peter, boxers or briefs?". The night was drawing to a close as we stumbled upon Christina Scabies and her male harem loitering near the merchandise stand on our way to use the in house john. They quickly gave us the snub despite our kindly salutations and words of praise.
Upon the last note wielded by Mikael's axe, we ventured yonder in to the night, kicking over garbage cans, and whacking stop signs with whatever makeshift weapons we could find on the mean streets of L.A, (the arsenal was endless). After we were done cackling like hyenas and scaring the Opethian horde off Wilshire Blvd like a band of prairie dogs, we made way to my beater, entered through the vestibule and in to the pod of destruction. Onwards and upwards we went, ending up in Glendale California at an all night eatery. It was at this fine dining establishment that I had was greeted by the hostess with the statement, "Why can't you keep your eyes open?" We laughed, made fun of negars, dined on chicken parmesian, and laughed some more. All thanks in part, to the lovely elixir known as Speedway Stout.
We arrived to the Venue around 730 to a crowd that wrapped around the building like Lord Red Dragon's arms on a teenage boy's waist. To our cringe worthy surprise the end of the line was occupied by a cadre of cholos sporting bandanas and jeans baggier than my eyes after a Friday night bender. Did we get the wrong date?!? After double checking our tickets we decided to lay low for a bit, while drinking two nice hefty bottles of Alesmith's Speedway Stout. As the aroma of the stout hit my snout, and the cooling nutty taste pasted my lips, all became right in the world once again. That was until we actually made it to the venue and grimaced with a fury the world has not seen since the time Tone picked up a pair of drumsticks. We made way to our seats which were encircled by pre-teen tots waving their Ghost Reverie albums high in the air, while shouting obscenities in to the night along the lines of, "Mikael I hear you play Badminton", "Martin will you marry me?", and my personal fave, "Peter, boxers or briefs?". The night was drawing to a close as we stumbled upon Christina Scabies and her male harem loitering near the merchandise stand on our way to use the in house john. They quickly gave us the snub despite our kindly salutations and words of praise.
Upon the last note wielded by Mikael's axe, we ventured yonder in to the night, kicking over garbage cans, and whacking stop signs with whatever makeshift weapons we could find on the mean streets of L.A, (the arsenal was endless). After we were done cackling like hyenas and scaring the Opethian horde off Wilshire Blvd like a band of prairie dogs, we made way to my beater, entered through the vestibule and in to the pod of destruction. Onwards and upwards we went, ending up in Glendale California at an all night eatery. It was at this fine dining establishment that I had was greeted by the hostess with the statement, "Why can't you keep your eyes open?" We laughed, made fun of negars, dined on chicken parmesian, and laughed some more. All thanks in part, to the lovely elixir known as Speedway Stout.
