Rumble in the Jungle

I like to think my musical tastes are quite eclectic. But the truth is, if you were to lift up one of my headphones, or have a seat in my Mustang Mach E, you'd probably hear old man geezer Classic Rock. 

You might, on occasion, hear some Frank Sinatra, some classical, or, if I'm feeling melancholy, even some Max Richter. But more than likely it will be Led Zeppelin, Santana, Jethro Tull or Yes.

Upon re-listening to many of the Yes albums of yesteryear, I now find their lyrics embarrassingly childish, obtuse and self indulgent. 

Talk about woo-woo.

All of which makes the picture from above, from Jungle's recent open air appearance at the Hollywood Bowl all the more confusing. Right?

"What the hell is he doing there?" you might be asking.

Last week  Ms. Muse was celebrating a birthday. And like me, she treasures experiences more than actual physical gifts. At least that what we keep telling each other. Though I do enjoy a good appliance and often experience appliance euphoria. For example, I love my new electric lemon juicer. Particularly since I have two lemon trees that are more fertile than OctoMom, remember her?

Long story, short, I bought us two tickets to the bowl, to see and hear Jungle, completely in the dark regarding their music or their showmanship. The YouTube videos I did see suggested that it was a mix of R&B music and some innovative choreography.

Besides, you can't really go wrong with a night at the Hollywood Bowl.

Turns out the show was short on choreography but heavy on the chronic. 

I came of age in the 70's and have been to many concerts where the Mary Jane was quite prevalent. This was Reefer Madness. We were surrounded on all sides. By people not smoking one joint but by couples, much younger couples, chainsmoking spleef after spleef after spleef. The cloud hanging opver the Bowl that night was thicker than even the most stubborn June marine layer.

I don't know how these people stood up on two feet. Which they all did throughout the show. 

Ms. Muse and I, known to suffer from occasional lower back pain, were the only ones sitting, and laughing, about the "musical adventure" we found ourselves on.

My favorite part of the show came with the opening act, which by the way was never mentioned on the ticket or the Bowl listing. A young man who goes by the name of BAS. He had the build of a husky football player, accentuated by his thick fur parka that was given up by an unfortunate cheetah or leopard.

While the band was playing a steady beat behind him, he was urging the crowd to chime in with the charming chorus of: "Bitch, don't play me like that." They don't write songs like that anymore.

I never had going to a rap concert on my bucket list. But now that I have, I can cross it off.

Happy Birthday, Sheryl.