The Black Lips are country. From Georgia. Well, Atlanta, so I suppose that means Southern, not necessarily Country, but there’s something very country in them – not bumpkin though, more like scallywag. Are you still with me? And these 1960’s-vibe, swirled, gypsy pulker (punk+folk) scallywags start a riot. My legs are black and blue from being endlessly slammed against the round tables barricading the front of the stage. I could hardly shoot with all the feet near my head and the sway sway swaying before getting knocked for six. The crowd surfers were as common as light beams and as free as the smoke. The Black Lips rile up the Great American Music Hall as usual. Not that I’m surprised. Every show I’ve seen them play is the same chaos and rile.
Please, for the love of love, have a look at this clip from the show.
The Black Lips are on Vice Records, so you know they pass massive cool protocol and microscopage. They spit in the air and catch it back in their mouth, maybe puke on someone, ya know, nasty, fun, scallywag stuff like that. Freeing everybody. They are known as garage-rock but I give them more than that– they actually create something spiritual. I’m not even kidding. Everyone was involved from front to back. The whole place was plugged in. Thru all the pain, I loved it. Isn’t that what love is– pain?
(I missed the opening band, Atlanta’s all girl three-piece Coathangers, but the word was they were “Great!”)
Photos and video by Victoria Smith