The Black Lips give Chicagoans a testosterone-filled (but fully clothed) show

March 14, 2009, at Logan Square Auditorium

By Katie Heath
Published: March 17th, 2009 | 9:10am

After not one, but two flannel-clad young dudes tripped over their feet and subsequently smashed their beer bottles and faces into the wall beside me, the Black Lips’ show had aptly begun. With a reputation for onstage theatrics including vomiting, pissing, band members making out, and consequent nudity, the Atlanta-based experimental rock group seemed to have attracted a like-minded Chicago crowd.

Joined by openers the Get Drunk DJs, Boystown, and fellow Atlanta rockers, Gentleman Jesse and His Men, the evening was permeated with testosterone, crowd surfing, boner jokes, and shout-outs to pizza. On the surface, it seemed as if the usually serene Logan Square Auditorium — a far cry from a more appropriate venue such as a Pabst beer box insulated basement — was housing an event for meathead and meathead-ette pummeling.

But the Black Lips liken their energy and style to “flower punk,” a self-defined genre that carries the idea that you can play aggressive, high-energy music without having to kick the living shit out of one another. It appeared that this underlying theme of camaraderie translated well in Chicago, as young and old punk rockers collided in a faux mosh pit and then helped carry crowd surfers to safety and/or the stage.

Conversely, flower punk’s peaceful undertones about alliance may have gotten lost in translation on a recent Black Lips tour in India this winter. After government officials caught a glimpse of their live show the group was promptly forced to go home. (Perhaps it was the documented incidents of onstage tea-bagging?)

Regardless, this hippie bedrock, as evidenced by the Black Lips’ heavy influences in vintage psychedelic acts such as the 13th Floor Elevators, makes way for a good show akin to one you might imagine off a lonesome, country road at a decrepit dive bar. Combine this sound with an array of other influences — including Mississippi Delta blues, spastic noise punk, and their native brand of country/rock — and you’ll find a band that fails to bore.

“I lost my voice. I haven’t hit puberty,” teased lead singer and bassist Jared Swilley before howling into the evening’s first song “Sea of Blasphemy.” “Blasphemy,” off the Black Lips’ Let It Bloom (In The Red), set the rhythm for the night as the band opted to play their discography’s faster tracks, keeping the organized chaos in high force throughout the duration of their 45-minute set.

Cole Alexander (vocals and guitar) rocked a poncho, bowler hat, and studded guitar strap while Ian Saint Pé (guitar) snarled at the audience with his removable gold grill. Vocalists Alexander, Swilley, and Joe Bradley — whose manic drumming resembles a person’s face in a slow-motion car crash — shared disorderly, howling vocals that packed the energy of their studio recordings. Lyrically, though, perhaps due to the mixing board’s jacked-up reverb, the songs didn’t translate intelligibly.

“It’s magic time,” Swilley declared, and a smoke machine diffused the venue with a thick, pungent fog. This led into the Black Lips’ fuzzy-guitar, infectious psych track, “Hippie, Hippie, Hoorah.” “Dirty Hands” returned the crowd to a more primal rock state, where they sang along with the band amid tossing one raven-haired girl above their heads.

Before the evening closed with “Bad Kids,” a fan favorite from their album Good Bad Not Evil (Vice), an audio recording played, “…Six thousand heroin addicts and I wondered, what’s wrong with America?” “Bad Kids” cued the audience — which ranged from pipsqueak punks to metal-head elders — to fracture into a panicky dance state and moved the stage and accompanying lights into convulsions.

So no piss, no spit shooting, and no nudity. What gives? I’d argue to say that since their recent release of 200 Million Thousand (Vice), the Black Lips might have grown up a bit.

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For more photos from this show visit Venus Zine’s Flickr page