I wanted to do an entire column on Pat—if I didn’t think it would be the epitome of classlessness to do so, I’d dedicate every column to the guy. How can you not love someone who just doesn’t get it? Someone who hides behind an excuse of “alcoholism” to explain him getting caught for doing something people in his line of business, or at least, the business he reports on, do all the time? And then reporting to work the very day after his elusive, evasive, self-promoting “redemption” special airs (to low ratings—it seems not everyone is as interested in watching this sham of a journalist try to make excuses for being a lech), like nothing ever happened? Pat, I loved you as a sportscaster, but love you so much more as the self-centered and empty person you’ve revealed yourself to be. Next time, just admit you were out for a good time and should’ve been more careful about whose phone you left messages on. I’d be more apt to move on from that than to forgive your suddenly selective memory. You got horny, and thought you had an option that many others have taken, and got burned. You looked foolish, but it happens—we all know women can make you crazy. But now, fresh off your appearance on Dr. Phil’s ridiculous show as a penitent, troubled man, well… you ain’t fooling anyone. Ladies, whenever Pat’s number rings into your phone, please, for the good of the world as well as yourself, let it go to voicemail.

You see what I mean? I can’t stop fixating on this guy. Which is funny, since I’d previously spent so much time trying to forget about him. But I also realize that this is a pretty shallow pursuit, and publicly laughing at the guy, fool tho’ he be, is not the most mature way to spend my time. So I thought I’d talk a little bit about Moby as a way to cleanse the palette.

I’m really the last guy that should be reviewing MOBY live. Like everyone else in America, I have his excellent Play disc, but haven’t ever even listened to his subsequent 18 (it’s around here somewhere). I am looking forward to checking out his new sample-free Hotel disc, but really, I’ve never been the biggest follower of techno or electronic music. I like me my guitars, especially in live shows.

So you can imagine what a pleasant surprise MOBY’s current tour was when I caught it last night. In fact, it’s a good thing I caught it when I did—last night’s show in San Diego (at a perfect-sized club downtown called 4th and B) was the last stop on the tour, before he heads to Europe.

Prior to the show, though, he made an appearance at a local record shop in the Golden Hills area, M-Theory Music (Don’t feel bad if you’ve never heard of the shop or the area—I live down here and I’d never heard of it). He was doing a little q&a with the crowd, and signing copies of his new disc or his new book, Teany, which includes various recipes, anecdotes and a behind-the-scenes look at his Vegan eatery of the same name.

The crowd at the place was sizeable enough, but manageable, and as I’d expect from a Moby crowd, well-behaved. We drank tea from his restaurant (which was very refreshing), had him sign the wife’s copy of the book (it was her birthday, which he acknowledged in his signature) and he took pictures with our friends’ dog. He was, also as I expected, polite, gracious and pleasant.

So who knew that inside that compact little frame lived a rock god waiting to break free?

A couple hours later at the show, after a really intriguing set by Canadian BUCK 65 (I mean that in the best way—I have no idea what to make of the kinda-spoken word/talk-sung/rapped music that accompanied pre-recorded tracks, but it was an excellent warm-up for the show, something I definitely want to hear more of), Moby took the stage, guitar in hand, laser lights on full display.

As a familiar tune off Play started, he ran around the stage, ripping off chord after chord, showing some nice guitar chops. He was backed by a full band, another guitarist (Scott Frassetto), bass player, drummer, really solid back-up singer in Laura Dawn, who took soulful lead on a few tracks and another back-up singer.

The most interesting thing about the show was watching Moby the stage performer, versus the public persona he has, which is that of thoughtful, concerned and soft-spoken activist. He’s all of that—just inside the building was a table with anti-meat flyers and videos of slaughterhouses—but on stage… he’s something else, too.

I think I was better equipped to handle the first half of the show than some of his long-time fans and those hoping to see him preside over another rave like he’s done in the past. Instead, he and his guitar carried the show. Don’t get me wrong—he’s not an excellent guitarist any more than he is a rock singer with a voice that’d fill a stadium—but what he is is a showman who seems to know exactly where his strengths lie. Even if some of the dance-oriented audience didn’t want to acknowledge these strengths at first.

Maybe the best part of the show was its pacing. Maybe his DJ-ing background helped him futher in figuring out how disparate styles can mesh together into a cohesive show, but his status as a veteran who’s done this enough to know how to put together a show that flows smoothly throughout. After a few rock songs, or at least a few Moby songs with rock leanings sprinkled throughout, he’d slow it down or he’d do a cover, or he’d do both, in the form of “Temptation,” a disco-tinged NEW ORDER song that was turned into a torchy ballad for Laura Dawn to sing. At one point, he mentioned that his guitar on one song sounded a bit “metal,” and that he found metal so fun to play that he and the band lit into a 35-second speed metal song (“Only 35 seconds,” he told his audience. “ONLY 35 seconds,” I thought?).

Of course—and this is where my interest waned a bit—he also made sure to include his dance audience. Besides, he confessed, he really loves disco and Donna Summer. So he played his form of disco, which is faster than anything Donna Summer ever imagined, but also more repetitive. If I had one complaint about the show, it’s that too many of his songs are basically just one hook or chorus repeated for 5-6 minutes. But he was great to watch on the bongos on “Very,” even if I’d rather hear the guitar tunes than the dance tunes (the crowd very much didn’t agree with me—the entire place came alive when he played that song of “We Are All Made of Stars,” his tribute to nerd-dom (his other confession, which didn’t exactly evoke an audible gasp from the crowd, was that he was a bit of a nerd as a kid and maybe is still a bit of one today).

With his stage banter, when he wasn’t confessing to being a disco-lover or a former D&D-playing geek, he was channeling a Southern preacher, and we were his congregation. So here’s quiet, sullen little Moby (the perception I had of him) bellowing with soul and with some fire and brimstone, too (the reality on stage, it seems). In all, it was nice to see him at least play with my expectations—I’d gone in thinking he’d stand behind a keyboard like Martin Gore, or run back and forth playing pre-programmed tracks like Mike Patton—and play with the rest of the audience’s expectations of him, too. We all came to the show thinking it’d be this or that; instead, it was this and that and more. Good show. And a nice, uplifting way to end a week spent dwelling on the sad hilarity that is Pat O’Brien. Somehow, it all put things in perspective—I’m spending my week thinking about this buffoon of a man and Moby’s going around making good music and raising people’s consciousness and pushing for social change. Luckily, the week’s over now and I can revert to my old ways…

Photos courtesy Moby.com and LittleIdiot.com

/chris

E-MAIL THE AUTHOR | ARCHIVES