Gig time. I wore my long-sleeve Samiam t-shirt, definitely a poor choice in concert-going attire. The plan was simple enough. Wait for Jake to get off of work, drive up to Seattle, meet Melody and Caitlin, drive on over to the Crocodile. My favorite unknown local band Kinski was headlining a show with the Master Musicians of Bukkake (pronounced BOO-COCK-EEE)
1. a Japanese word that can be literally translated as "splash" or "shower".
2. a Japanese sexual term that refers to showering a receiver with sperm from one, several or many men. It is always a sperm shower and, therefore, those on the giving end are always male.
What you're looking at with the Master Musicians is this rotund lead singer, mostly singing nonesense lyrics (poo-poo, pee-pee, ka-ka, poo-poo, pee-pee, ka-ka) and screaming indecipherable syllables. He's big, he's hairy, he holds the microphone in between his huge jugs. There was a bass player in a muumuu with a full deer mask over his head and an Indian headress on top. They played loud, they played long, they had a smoke machine. Their entire set was a constant 35 minute stream of never-stopping music. Jake and I adored this band.
Then, closing it out was Kinski. A quartet who composes mostly lyricless, mostly hard-rocking jam music. Jake and I adored this band. Jake and I being the operative component here.
I'll be honest, there was definite deception on my part. Deception in the form of leaving out one very important fact in order to get Caitlin and Melody to go along. Of course, once they realized what they were in store for, they bailed faster than a mariner on a sinking ship. It's all right, though. There's a definite reason why you don't hear Kinski's music on Top 40 radio: they're not what you'd call pop-friendly. It's a very loud, very abrasive set of music. Of course, they tickle my fancy just fine, but I'm into that whole non-singing thing. They've released, I believe, five albums since '99, and I have them all. It's good music to write to.