Brian Jonestown Massacre

Sat., Aug. 6, The Earl

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Plenty of bands take the stage late, but none do it with the same self-destructive condescension as Brian Jonestown Massacre. Scheduled to go on at midnight, the Jonestown members tinker with their guitars as undisputed lead man Anton Newcombe yells in their faces. “It’ll be just one more second,” Newcombe says into the mic. “We’re deciding who to fire right now, but it doesn’t concern you people.”

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“You people” aren’t concerned. The sold-out crowd obediently waits, listening to Newcombe rant about how his guitar won’t tune because it’s been strung wrong and how you should never hire friends because they’ll screw you. After the 2004 documentary DIG!, Newcombe’s micro-managing, confrontational stage presence was elevated from infamous to famous. Crowds watch him like a space shuttle launch: Will he make it or will he fall apart?

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At 12:33 a.m., Brian Jonestown Massacre begins to play, greeted by loud applause. At 12:34 a.m., Newcombe dives off stage and crashes into a guy whom he then pushes back stage by the throat. The door swings shut, obscuring what a reasonable guess says is a fight. Cigarettes dangle at half-drag and beers pause midway to mouth in confusion. A “Cat Power!” shout earns a few snickers. Newcombe hastily returns to the stage and delivers a lecture about leadership: Dude drank on the house tab all day, didn’t do his job, promises to play until the venue closes, blah, blah, blah.

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At 12:37 a.m., BJM tries again. “Our monitors,” barks Newcombe at the sound guy. He begins tuning again, and whatever song the band tried to play fizzes out. Newcombe throws down his guitar to find another and grabs his guitarist. “Frankie, I can play without you while you tune the guitar.”

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Shortly before 1 a.m., BJM completes its first song of the evening. Newcombe’s voice is hoarse. Instead of saving it for songs, he yells at Rob Campanella, who sometimes produces BJM albums and plays keyboards, but not for this show. “Death to you, Rob,” screams Newcombe. “Flowers on the grave. DEATH!”

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The band manages to squeeze in a few songs, including a three-minute “Hide and Seek” and an extended 20-minute psych-rock jam. Half the crowd has left, but the guy Newcombe tackled earlier in the evening has snuck back in. For a minute, it’s about the music, but as the band starts another song, Newcombe says, “How about in time?” and counts the rhythm.

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“Your music is great,” shouts an audience member, “but your show is tired.”

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“I am not your fucking monkey,” Newcombe spits back. He is, however, the monkey on his own back.