“He didn’t even puke!” That is not the response one expects to hear when chatting with a girl near the bar after a set. I was propped up against the wall, minding my own business, when the said girl decided to back up against the same wall in the same spot I was occupying. After letting out a little scream when she realized it wasn’t only a wall she was leaning against, she apologized so many times that I had to change the subject. “Insane, right?” I was talking about a Viagra Boys set so wild it prompted a kid to do a backflip off the balcony into the crowd. “Amazing,” she replied, “he didn’t even puke!” Obviously, I wasn’t up on the latest Viagra Boys scoop, but evidently, the lead singer, Seb, is usually accompanied by a bucket on stage, just in case he needs to vomit between songs. Already feeling out of the loop regarding all the “shrimp” references, I was beginning to think I really had wandered into a cult gathering.
“We are not a cult,” the tattoo-shirted Seb lashed out at the crowd. Holding a Ziplock bag in disgust, he studied what looked like a shrimp soaking in various body fluids, “What the fuck is this shit? Is that spit? I’ve been trying to put this whole shrimp thing down for years, and it just won’t die!” We were only two songs into the set when I realized this was the most Punk show I’d been to in years. Oscar Carls’ short shorts and golden saxophone didn’t change a thing, and neither did the humor in the lyrics; this shit was hardcore.
Having played Boulder the night before, the Swedish band had no trouble selling out the Gothic Theatre on Saturday night. The place was packed beyond a comfortable capacity. Shooting the show from the photo pit was chaos; we were dodging each other and had to make way for security to catch the crowd surfers before we took a boot to the head. The six Swedes on stage were mainlining the energy; Seb spitting at the crowd with his sarcastic snarl, Henrik looking possessed with his eyes rolled back during the bass breakdowns, Oscar putting his elevated lungs to the test on sax, and Elias rocking his cowboy hat and bolo tie (but no pants) while banging out the keys. Tor was the smart one, keeping things on track from behind the safety of his drum kit.
“We’re out of breath already. Not sure how you guys do it. On top of that, you guys smoke copious amounts of marijuana. You should stick with stimulants. We are a very anti-natural band. We come from a long line of chemicals.”
Back at the bar, mid-set, I’m watching two guys full-on swing dancing, and a barefoot guy is telling the bartender that someone stole his shoes. A kid just launched himself from the balcony and miraculously came out unscathed. The Viagra Boys have been blasting through selections from all three albums, and the euphoria in the air is tinged with a hint of anxiety.
“This fucking Denver air. I can’t fucking breathe! I am not going to touch you, sir. It isn’t going to help. I need serious medical attention, not voodoo shit. I need a break. I can’t keep singing and dancing every night. I need a Mai Tai. I go back to the hotel and am like, ‘what the fuck?’ I look in the mirror and am like, ‘I have never seen anything like you. You’re fat, but you’re not.”
The drama came to a close after an hour with two of their most notorious tracks, “Sports” (“ping pong, Rugby ball, wiener dog,”) and “Shrimp Shack,” which isn’t about shrimp at all; something made abundantly clear by Seb’s intro to the song. It was a long diatribe about meeting your mom and doing dirty things with her and how (spoiler alert) the song is really about drugs.
Counting Nina Ljeti and company’s short assault as Kills Birds (check them out if you haven’t already!), we had all been in the Gothic for a couple of hours by the time the Swedes left the stage, and the side effects were kicking in. Watching the crowd filter out of the central area, some were missing articles of clothing, some looked dazed and confused, others looked like they might be looking for a fight, and then there were those who needed to be carried (either by friends or security). Luckily for the rest of us, those in the worst shape didn’t stick around for Shame. At least a third of the sold-out crowd had disappeared by the time the Londoners showed themselves.
After the purposely cretinous exhibition that was Viagra Boys, Shame came out looking like prep school boys. Seriously, Charlie Steen resembled Jesse Eisenberg playing Mark Zuckerberg in The Social Network. Looks are deceiving, though. Josh Finerty was the perpetual motion machine running loops around the stage with a commendable jump off the drum riser every few laps. Steen ripped off his shirt and threw himself at his adoring fans minutes into the set. Then, he took it a step further by fully standing on them mid-set. The crowd had thinned as the night went on but was still thick enough to allow for Steen’s antics.
A case could be made that Viagra Boys should have been the headliner, but since they both had the same length sets, I am glad Shame came last. With their dry humor and choice of previously unheard tracks from their forthcoming third album, it was best that they performed for a crowd who was there to see them, a crowd that would not only appreciate new material but would be excited to hear it.
“For those of you who don’t know us, this is one of our songs.”
“There are a lot of ways to structure a song, but we have done something unthinkable…the band comes in, and then I come in on vocals and then…(rambling a million words a minute)”
Shame is a punk band as well. They are just not as showy as the bands that came before them on the bill. There was a pit near the front of the stage, but the show could also be enjoyed from the now comfortable space above the main floor. They were technically the most talented band of the night. And they were fun as hell. Angry at the state of the world, just like the rest of us, the boys in Shame seem to look toward the future instead of trying to escape it. They have roots in the Post-Punk past but are at home in the present.
“Shame, Shame, Shame, that’s our fucking name!”
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