All hail the Boognish! Ween injects a little bit of weird into Winston-Salem. (photo courtesy of David Wainer, hotshoecreative.com)
Ween is not for everyone, including the easily offended, recovering alcoholics, those clinging to a tenuous grip on reality, anyone with strong moral convictions, feminists, chauvinists, pacifi sts, honor-roll students, Tea Partiers, Justin Bieber fans and the indiscriminately humorless. Pregnant women should not handle Ween because of the risk of a certain type of birth defect. Do not stare directly into Ween. Possible side effects include headaches, dizziness and dry mouth. Ask your doctor if Ween is right for you.
With that warning out of the way, it’s fair for me to reiterate that Ween certainly isn’t for most, though that doesn’t make their show at the Millennium Center last Wednesday, the second of their current tour, any less signifi cant. In a city where the largest venue has all but given up on booking acts of any cultural import, there hasn’t been a truly noteworthy rock concert in months.
Yet, there’s a reason why Ween is known as a cult act, though the patient and open-minded listener could fi nd one of the most humorous, subversive and fulfi lling bands of any strain. Only Frank Zappa could have gotten away with songs like “Waving My Dick In the Wind,” but it’s where Ween’s mix of earthen, tube-haired itinerants, polo-ed frat types, and puerile Encyclopedia Dramatica trolls fi nd their commonalities. The quintet clearly doesn’t care about their image, either. Singer and guitarist Gene Ween (Aaron Freeman) is aging like the Nazi who drank from the wrong cup in Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade, but it’s also apropos that he fronts a band that built their legend on spitting in the face of good taste.
Ween impulsively shifted from the absurdist power pop and rare live treat of “Marble Tulip Juicy Tree” to the rebellious and utterly deranged “Spinal Meningitis (Got Me Down)” to the Calypso-and-cocaine-infused cabana narrative “Bananas and Blow” in the fi rst 20 minutes of the show, making it a good bet that anyone who might have bought tickets on recommendation alone standing with arms crossed for the rest of the evening.
It was a fans-only open indeed, but even diehards were in awe of the morsels thrown their way as the intensity ratcheted during “Voodoo Lady,” one of the bands few “normal” songs that still happens to rock — and hard. In between a trippy distortion sortie and a reprise of the song’s boogie-oogie-oogie chorus, Freeman postured and smacked his lips like a queen on a two-verse tease of Prince’s “Kiss.” It was a moment that was both unexpected sublime to see the graying, puffy Freeman nailing a spot-on Prince facsimile, but shouldn’t have shocked any repeat offenders to these shows. Ween’s fans have come to expect these moments, though one never really knows how or when; they’re simply thins you have to be ready to embrace.
The band gave a solid look at their last release, 2007’s La Cucaracha, starting with the blatantly sexist lament “Object,” but it was the acerbic “Your Party” which I awaited with bated breath. Lines like “I was calm when we arrived at the party/ I spoke with fervor, embracing the evening” and the account of “candy and spices and tri-colored pastas” satisfi ed my ache for some skewering of the WASP-y extravagance of 1980s yacht rock, but not even former Blood, Sweat & Tears keyboardist Glenn McLelland’s cheesy synth interlude could completely replace David Sanborn’s ultra-syrupy sax on the studio cut.
If any fi rst-timer in the house had escaped unoffended to that point, they were certainly fl oundered after Dean Ween took the vocals for arguably the superlative live track from La Cucaracha, “With My Own Bare Hands.” His throaty metal vocal chops heaved words so obscene that they were only made possible by the First Amendment’s parody protection. The set list was fi lled out by beloved regulars “Buckingham Green,” “Mutilated Lips” and “Pandy Fackler,” as fans showed their appreciation by tossing garbage onstage. It was almost as if Freeman acknowledged the crowd’s general obtuseness after ripping through a cover of David Bowie’s “Let’s Dance.”
“Thank you so much Winston-Salem, we love you so much. We always look forward to coming here every year,” he said with tongue planted in cheek. “Deaner and I, we talk about it on the phone. He says, ‘So much love for us in Winston-Salem.’ I said, ‘Yeah man!’” All was forgiven, however, as Ween threw a bone to the wayward Phish fans who latched onto the band during the wookie icons’ hiatus, as they ended the 2.5-hour marathon set with a cover of Phish’s cover of their own “Roses Are Free.” No doubt some of those went home beaming about Ween playing a “Phish cover.” Those who hadn’t choked to death on ganja smoke by the encore were ushered out by a mildly uneventful encore of the lyricless party jig “Fiesta” and the tear-jerking Spanish epic “Buenos Tardes Amigos.” Sorry friends, no tortuous, 30-minute long “Poopship Destroyer” this time, but it was still easily the best show Winston-Salem has seen this year. !
Ween is not for everyone, including the easily offended, recovering alcoholics, those clinging to a tenuous grip on reality, anyone with strong moral convictions, feminists, chauvinists, pacifi sts, honor-roll students, Tea Partiers, Justin Bieber fans and the indiscriminately humorless. Pregnant women should not handle Ween because of the risk of a certain type of birth defect. Do not stare directly into Ween. Possible side effects include headaches, dizziness and dry mouth. Ask your doctor if Ween is right for you.
With that warning out of the way, it’s fair for me to reiterate that Ween certainly isn’t for most, though that doesn’t make their show at the Millennium Center last Wednesday, the second of their current tour, any less signifi cant. In a city where the largest venue has all but given up on booking acts of any cultural import, there hasn’t been a truly noteworthy rock concert in months.
Yet, there’s a reason why Ween is known as a cult act, though the patient and open-minded listener could fi nd one of the most humorous, subversive and fulfi lling bands of any strain. Only Frank Zappa could have gotten away with songs like “Waving My Dick In the Wind,” but it’s where Ween’s mix of earthen, tube-haired itinerants, polo-ed frat types, and puerile Encyclopedia Dramatica trolls fi nd their commonalities. The quintet clearly doesn’t care about their image, either. Singer and guitarist Gene Ween (Aaron Freeman) is aging like the Nazi who drank from the wrong cup in Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade, but it’s also apropos that he fronts a band that built their legend on spitting in the face of good taste.
Ween impulsively shifted from the absurdist power pop and rare live treat of “Marble Tulip Juicy Tree” to the rebellious and utterly deranged “Spinal Meningitis (Got Me Down)” to the Calypso-and-cocaine-infused cabana narrative “Bananas and Blow” in the fi rst 20 minutes of the show, making it a good bet that anyone who might have bought tickets on recommendation alone standing with arms crossed for the rest of the evening.
It was a fans-only open indeed, but even diehards were in awe of the morsels thrown their way as the intensity ratcheted during “Voodoo Lady,” one of the bands few “normal” songs that still happens to rock — and hard. In between a trippy distortion sortie and a reprise of the song’s boogie-oogie-oogie chorus, Freeman postured and smacked his lips like a queen on a two-verse tease of Prince’s “Kiss.” It was a moment that was both unexpected sublime to see the graying, puffy Freeman nailing a spot-on Prince facsimile, but shouldn’t have shocked any repeat offenders to these shows. Ween’s fans have come to expect these moments, though one never really knows how or when; they’re simply thins you have to be ready to embrace.
The band gave a solid look at their last release, 2007’s La Cucaracha, starting with the blatantly sexist lament “Object,” but it was the acerbic “Your Party” which I awaited with bated breath. Lines like “I was calm when we arrived at the party/ I spoke with fervor, embracing the evening” and the account of “candy and spices and tri-colored pastas” satisfi ed my ache for some skewering of the WASP-y extravagance of 1980s yacht rock, but not even former Blood, Sweat & Tears keyboardist Glenn McLelland’s cheesy synth interlude could completely replace David Sanborn’s ultra-syrupy sax on the studio cut.
If any fi rst-timer in the house had escaped unoffended to that point, they were certainly fl oundered after Dean Ween took the vocals for arguably the superlative live track from La Cucaracha, “With My Own Bare Hands.” His throaty metal vocal chops heaved words so obscene that they were only made possible by the First Amendment’s parody protection. The set list was fi lled out by beloved regulars “Buckingham Green,” “Mutilated Lips” and “Pandy Fackler,” as fans showed their appreciation by tossing garbage onstage. It was almost as if Freeman acknowledged the crowd’s general obtuseness after ripping through a cover of David Bowie’s “Let’s Dance.”
“Thank you so much Winston-Salem, we love you so much. We always look forward to coming here every year,” he said with tongue planted in cheek. “Deaner and I, we talk about it on the phone. He says, ‘So much love for us in Winston-Salem.’ I said, ‘Yeah man!’” All was forgiven, however, as Ween threw a bone to the wayward Phish fans who latched onto the band during the wookie icons’ hiatus, as they ended the 2.5-hour marathon set with a cover of Phish’s cover of their own “Roses Are Free.” No doubt some of those went home beaming about Ween playing a “Phish cover.” Those who hadn’t choked to death on ganja smoke by the encore were ushered out by a mildly uneventful encore of the lyricless party jig “Fiesta” and the tear-jerking Spanish epic “Buenos Tardes Amigos.” Sorry friends, no tortuous, 30-minute long “Poopship Destroyer” this time, but it was still easily the best show Winston-Salem has seen this year. !
