My journey began ordinarily enough — I rode the Caltrain into town with two friends, Luke and Patrick, then walked a mile or two to the Warfield. About five minutes after a suspicious-looking man named Sauce tried to sell Luke and me crack outside a nearby BART terminal (and then gave us his phone number), the Warfield opened its doors to a long line of anxious fans.
My friends and I quickly secured a spot close to the stage.
We waited in anticipation for the opening act — Albert Hammond Jr. Hammond is one of the guitarists in the Strokes, and we would be seeing his side project. All I knew about him was that he plays his guitar extremely high up on his chest, he has a big head of curly hair, and his father was a jazz guitarist (I think).
So I didn’t know much. But, with no expectations, I wasn’t particularly surprised when his side project turned out to be something like what you would get if Sauce had instead sold his goods to Hammond’s main band — a bouncier, faster, less restrained Strokes (without the unpleasant side-effects). Definitely enjoyable, but not particularly groundbreaking.
With Prince Albert’s last tune, the crowd waited with one thought on its one-track, Bay Area mind: Incubus. The audience applauded pointlessly every time the background music went silent at the break between songs, regardless of whether or not roadies were still onstage, but I won’t protest too much. After an excruciating 40-minute wait, and several half-hearted chants of “In-cu-bus,” the band finally appeared, greeted with deafening applause.
Let me present you with the most probable stream of consciousness of the teenage girl standing to my left: “Oooh it’s getting dark. That must mean — yes! Incubus.
And...
OMG. Brandon Boyd is soooo hot. I want to, like, marry him.
Or at least touch him. Mmmmm..
..”
Before the cheering and salivating of my female acquaintance could subside, the group opened with “Quicksand” and the explosive “A Kiss to Send Us Off” (the first two songs from their new album, “Light Grenades”).
The band showed they more than deserved the crowd’s enthusiasm, most of which was directed toward heartthrob frontman Boyd and his undeniably godlike good looks. The group quickly segued into hits, such as “Anna Molly” and “Wish You Were Here,” and lesser-known tracks, such as “Paper Shoes” and “Have You Ever.” A few ambitious fans even crowd-surfed; I know because one gracefully fell on his face right behind me.
But nearly the entire audience seemed to know the words to practically every song; during “Wish You Were Here,” the still really, really, really ridiculously good-looking Boyd stopped to laugh with pleasure as the crowd’s own rendition of the chorus drowned his out.
But, like so many unfortunate lovers, the performance climaxed early. After a handful of tunes, Boyd and guitarist Mike Einziger slowed things down a bit with a short acoustic set which included an interesting reconfiguration of “New Skin” (from 1997’s “S.
C.I.E.
N.C.E.
”) and “Pardon Me” (from 1999’s “Make Yourself”). While enjoyable, the change of pace lost much of the crowd’s intense, almost manic fervor.
But, to their credit, Incubus knows how to get it up again (metaphorically, of course).
Boyd took off his shirt — to the pleasure, screams, and near-hyperventilation of most women in the audience — and the group performed an impressive, extended version of “Sick Sad Little World” (from 2004’s “A Crow Left of the Murder...
”), complete with a virtuoso solo from bassist Ben Kenney. After the group closed with “Nowhere Fast,” the crowd was more than ready for the obligatory encore.
The most exciting part of said encore may have been when Boyd donned the red dress thrown at him earlier by a crazed fan.
But the group still finished strong with “Pendulous Threads,” “Pistola,” and, finally, “Megalomaniac.” Surprisingly, they didn’t perform their chart-topping “Drive,” though I suspect the omission was a tactic to limit the number of girls fainting from too much blood to the heart (and not enough to the brain).
Luckily, the show ended in time for us to catch the last Caltrain back to campus.
Before I knew it, I was home, and my ears were already ringing like a bitch.
All in all, Incubus rocked. Hard.
Maybe I should get out more often...
. Or not. I’ve still got IHUM to deal with.
But at least I met Sauce.
Dean Schaffer still has access to Sauce’s number through his friend Luke. If you’re into that kind of thing, email him at deans55@stanford.
edu, and he’ll hook you up.
(Comments are meant to provide a constructive way for users to interact online. Please keep discussion civil, and refrain from using profanity, personal attacks, potentially libelous language, or hate speech.
Comments that contain the above or any other inappropriate content will be removed, and users who abuse the feature may be blocked. Thanks! By submitting your comment, you give The Daily permission to print your comment and given user name if selected for the "Readers React" section of the paper.
News RSS