THE HIVES

   Getting amped for a rock and roll show in the middle of the week can be a tough sell.  Especially one that is taking place at Clutch Cargo’s in Pontiac, a good forty-five minute drive from home.

   But that was the task at hand for Anthony and I a couple of weeks ago when The Hives came to town toward the end of their North American tour.

   Complicating matters somewhat was the baggage that each of us brought to the evening.

   For Tony, it was his upcoming vacation.  He and Miss Beth would be leaving to visit good friend and former Michigander Jim T (not sure if he wants his entire name mentioned in this ribald forum).  Mind you, they were leaving five days from the show date, but those who know Tony and Beth understand that this is really not a long time for them to pack all of their gear and sharpen their vacation focus.

   I had informed Tony earlier in the week that I had corralled my son Jackson as his replacement, in case the burden of getting ready for a week of debauchery proved too demanding and he did not wish to go.  In fact, Jack had turned me down flat, citing his hate of all things rock and all things crowd.  I did not let Tony in on that little secret.  If he did not want to attend, I would fly solo.

   The day before the show, Little Brother was still undecided.  I told him in the parking lot at work that I could not wait for what was sure to be a fantastic evening of garage rock, Swedish style.  I punctuated my love of the Hives with a Howlin’ Pelle (lead singer of the Hives) kick.

   The next day, Tony told me he was in.  Obviously, my kick had done the trick.

   My baggage involved a rare headache.  I used to suffer from migraines back in the day but have not had one in years due to the wonder drug Proprananol.  The night of the concert came at the end of a stressful work day (is there any other kind?), coupled with unrelenting heat and humidity.  I was not suffering from one of my debilitating migraines, but definitely felt pressure at the top of my bald dome.

   Much to my surprise, Tony did not have his bag of tricks with him that evening.  A bag that includes a veritable pharmacy, clothes for every occasion and weather situation, and random zit cover up.  We instead stopped at the Sav-On Pharmacy in Birmingham and I purchased a bottle of Sav-On Aspirin.  My Bro was appalled at my choice, calling it rot gut aspirin and making stomach growling sounds to indicate what he felt would be the result of my taking the off brand.  I told him that I would accompany the aspirin with a healthy dose of booze and he seemed satisfied with my plan of attack.

   Pontiac in general, and Clutch Cargos specifically, is a shithole.  

   Though you could shoot a cannon off in largely abandoned downtown Pontiac on a Wednesday evening and not hit a soul, I had a hard time parking my car.  Finally, an old guy with eyebrows wilder than mine motioned me to a spot half in his lot and half on the sidewalk.  I took it.

   Clutch Cargos was smaller than I remembered.  It was dingier than I remembered.  It was more rickety than I remembered.  In short, it was the perfect place to see a rock concert.

   The horseshoe shaped balcony was roped off, not a great sign for The Hives.  The crowd looked to be about five hundred.  A lot of guys, a few alt rock chicks and strangely, a few families with very young children in tow.

   After a pair of forgettable warm up bands ( I really have forgotten their names and see no reason to look it up), The Hives hit the stage looking fantastic.  As any fan of the band knows, these guys always wear a uniform of sorts.  On this tour, in support of the album Lex Hives (lex is latin for law, get it, the Hives are law), the band is sporting top hats and tails.  Like professional wrestlers, these guys understand that image means a lot.

   Also like professional wrestlers, The Hives have unique handles.  The aforementioned Howlin’ Pelle on vocals, Chris Dangerous on drums, Dr. Matt Destruction on bass, Nicholaus Arson on lead and Vigilante Carlstroem on rhythm.

   Final wrestling comparison, I promise.  The Hives give you a lot to look at.  Pelle is the ring leader. Constant motion, kicking, jumping off the stage to mingle with the crowd, standing on the bass drum, telling you how great The Hives are and how lucky you are to see them.  Arson is second in command.  Equal parts spitting and sweating, almost as much time spent in the crowd as on the stage.  The rhythm section does not move as much, but anchor things with an upright ferocity.  Finally, the big man, Vigilante.  I have always maintained that people love a big man (John Candy, Chris Farley, Refrigerator Perry) and they really love a big man who gives it his all.  People love Vigilante.  He sweats, he sings back up with vigor and he leans against the wall when it all gets too much.

   There is a lot of image, a lot to look at with The Hives.

   But it wouldn’t mean shit if they weren’t such a great garage band.

   What you won’t get at a Hives show:  Self indulgent instrumental soloing, acoustic sets with the band sitting on stools, ignoring past hits for the new album.

   What you will get:  Seventeen songs running three to four minutes each, an electric onslaught played with insane vigor, a generous mix of old Hives and new Hives (they open with Come On and toss in Go Right Ahead toward the end, both from the new CD and both certain to remain in their set for years to come).  

   Are these guys great virtuosos?  Probably not.  But sometimes, effort and attitude conquer all.  I saw Jeff Beck in concert back in the day.  No doubt a better guitar technician than Arson.  Yet I pick Arson.  While Beck dripped contempt for the crowd, Arson jumped into the deep end and mixed it up.  The Hives win!

   Tony and I were content to stand stage right for the first quarter of the show, but found ourselves migrating toward the mosh pit center stage as the evening progressed.  After mixing it up there for a bit, Tony marched to the front of the stage and I saw him hanging on to the barrier front row center for the second half of the show.  As a member of the Friday Night Bug Juice press corps, he felt it was his duty to witness the evening within spitting distance of the band (literally).

   When the concert ended, fueled by booze and punk rock, Tony began referring to himself as “The Baby Bull”.  I understand that this continued throughout the night, including some rants aimed at his wife Beth, who was desperately clinging to sleep.

   Tony felt that the show was top three all time.  I can’t go quite that far, but his vantage point was a bit different than mine, which could account for some of the disparity.

   I will say that each work week would be a hell of a lot better if it was interrupted with The Hives in concert.

   Lex Hives!

Cheers!  JIm