So, a typical Friday night last week at my favorite dive bar in Oakland, the Stork Club. My band played a show with a fantastic eclectic lineup: VENTAT (metal), Hurricane Rupaul (punk rock uke and bass duo), and Matt Holdaway's Army (classic oral story telling over some smooth jams).
Had a shot of whiskey or two, with a quick exorcism chaser, followed by an abortion/bludgeoning, and topped with a beheading.
It was very, very bloody.
When I agreed to help VENTAT out with their gloriously gorey show, I didn't really know what I was signing up for. Oh, don't get me wrong, I knew there'd be blood, I just didn't know there'd be THIS MUCH:
I was wearing dark purple tights, and just about lost my head laughing when they came off for a shower.
Needless to say, (but I'm obviously gonna say it anway), I fucking adore sharing a stage with VENTAT. We share a love and enthusiasm for theatrics that rivals this girl's love of kittens. That's rather a profound amount of love my friends.
VENTAT always strives to bring a quality level of showmanship to the stage, which I appreciate quite a rather large amount. Such a large amount in fact, that it is indeed immeasurable. Or perhaps I'm just too lazy to find a reasonable comparison. And fuck it, they look pretty damn fancy too:
