Attending the 20th-anniversary tour of Zakk Wylde's Black Label Society made me think about how messed up the world still is for women. An unlikely thought, but there ya go.
The thinking about women started with the Atomic Bitchwax, a veteran riffhard working-class band from Wylde's home state, New Jersey. For one thing, Bitchwax drummer Keith Ackerman was wearing an L7 "Smell the Magic" T-shirt depicting a dude going down on a smiling young blonde. Nice subversion of rokk expectations. Then, guitarist & woofer Ed Mundell did one of his joke bits where he asked the women in the sardined audience to raise their hands. He counted about six, but he missed quite a few, because, y'know, he couldn't see them.
Also, they couldn't see him. Women, as it happens, tend to be shorter than men. Mundell's joke was about how femmes don't dig metal, but in fact many do. If they don't show up for general-admission shows like this, one of the reasons is that they get treated like sh*t.
Most of the women I saw were looking at the backs of men, or looking at their feet, and looking as if they wished they had read a book instead. Even I, who had purchased elevator boots just for the occasion, could barely see a sliver of the stage. The overcrowding accounted for part of the blockage, but the view was reduced to nothingness by a forest of cell phones raised FOR THE DURATION OF THE BLACK LABEL SET, so that many, many dudes could record the whole thing.
I had seen this kind of obstruction before, and it had pissed me off plenty. This occasion boosted my hatred backlog, but I didn't want to abandon all faith in human decency. So I considered: What if these tall gentlemen were actually sacrificing their immediate enjoyment of the concert (and that of everyone behind them) SO THEY COULD SHOW THEIR GIRLFRIENDS, who had avoided the show because circumstances made it a no-win for women?
Hahahahahahaha. No. For the record, these digital documentarians were just garden-variety assholes, and nothing can excuse them. In addition, they could not have been trying to please their girlfriends, because assholes like that don't have girlfriends.
Next stop, the bathrooms, which at El Rey (for good reason not called La Reina) stand side by side. I waited about half a minute for one of the numerous urinals, while the line for the powder room stretched back about 40 feet -- and this at an event already notable for its paucity of female attendees. As I entered, one of the women, prancing from foot to foot, pleaded, "Is there a free crapper in there? I mean, not for crapping. I promise I won't peek."
No, I am not suggesting a reinstatement of yesteryears' ban on cell phones, or suggesting that venues should not oversell their floor space, or suggesting that Los Angeles facilties should be made comfortable for their patrons. That would be like suggesting the repeal of gravity. And as we know, without gravity there could be no golf.
* * *
Oh yes, Zakk. The riffs, the squeals, the blazing leads, the growls, the skulls, the wildman beard, the studded vest, the goddamn KILT. I f*cking love the guy. What a talent, what a comedian, what an asset to Ozzy. Wish I had been there. Wait, I was. Sorta.
It was the end of a 16-date BLS tour, and Zakk did seem a bit tired, both physically weary and tired of the heavy music, which showcased only half of his skills. He started with "Genocide Junkies," and we all sang along with "Suicide Messiah." After that it got blurry. The sound sucked. I pitied this incarnation of Black Label Society, the musicians serviceable in a thankless backup role. Trying to see and hear was work. Too much work. I left halfway through. The women stayed.
SEVERELY CROPPED PHOTO BY FUZZY BARK.