April 16, 2011
@ The Fillmore
Better than: A sacred why, a mystery gaping inside.
A line outside the Fillmore that stretches up Geary Boulevard is no great marvel on a foggy Saturday night. One snaking a left turn up Steiner and across O'Farrell, one long double conga line comprised in the overwhelming main of excited ladies aged 22 to 55, was by common consent a freak occurrence. “I've never seen it all the way back here!” squealed a knowledgeable scene brat as some stentorian-voiced loser kept up a ceaseless wheedle to buy anyone's spare tickets to this sold-out show. Quickbuck artistes were asking $690 online before the show, but this leather-lunged dipshit found no takers as the line inched inside the hallowed THC-soaked walls of the historic venue. Fillmore staff oversaw the immense labor of getting them in with cheer and barely visible effort. This kind of operation can't even be attempted in L.A. without 100 cops and rousing the fire marshal out of bed, so props to institutional competence.