Pissing off Scenesters Since 1995
Michael McNichols
Chicago, IL 2/23/07
Were he any place other than up on stage at the Cobra Lounge last Friday night, Ryan Mattes, lead singer of The Last of the V8′s, would have been arrested. Shirtless, but wearing a leather jacket and jeans, Mattes spilled beer all over himself, broke bottles, crawled, growled, bled, sweated, and jumped off the stage onto the shoulders of guitarist Jay Zastoupil.
He also did quite a good job of singing, though I could have watched him shamble stiff-legged around the stage all night, yelling, “This next song is about zombies!” I’d even ignore the fact that his asscrack stuck up out of his jeans in full view of the crowd, but Mattes apparently didn’t care. Why should I?
Naturally, the rest of the band stayed out of Mattes’s one man show within a show and just played. Hey, somebody’s got to be the straight man. They never lacked for energy though.
Kriss Ward never tired on drums and kept hammering away throughout the entire set. Chico Thunder on bass perfectly complimented Jay Zastoupil on guitar. All three also deserve gold, freakishly life-like statues for not getting distracted by Mattes. Whether he was prancing around with his face full of blood or hugging them and rubbing the microphone onto their chests, they not only played on, but also never missed a beat.
I probably would have fallen off the stage laughing, but lacking that kind of poise is one of the reasons I’m not a musician and just write about them. Obviously, The Last of the V8′s gelled together long enough and it showed.
Song after song, their music provided the perfect soundtrack to a chaotic evening of alcoholic heaven dimly recalled the next morning. Any other night, I’d bet the band’s energy would have sparked a large mosh pit that would have sent the teenager who snuck in with a fake ID to the hospital with broken ribs.
Friday night though, the Cobra Lounge crowd seemed too laid back to really indulge themselves. Despite the band’s insistence that the audience crowd right up to the stage, everyone stayed back a good five feet or so. While this gave Mattes room to roll around on the floor while fondling himself with the microphone, it still wasn’t the sweaty, claustrophobic insanity you expect at a rock show.
However, a few insistent mosh pits still broke out, mostly sustained by the same one or two people and I don’t blame them. They had the room to thrash around and were obviously so drunk they wanted to throw each other down to the floor to forget just having to vomit up their livers.
I’ll even admit to joining them for a time until I got clipped in the face. Yeah, I’m a bitch, but I tried! The Last of the V8′s inspired me dammit!
So if they’re playing near you, head out and drink so much you forget your name, car, and social security number. Get right up close to the stage and mosh, break bottles, thrash, moan, crawl, or just stand back and chill. Whichever gets you off.
