Last night I tried lutefisk for the first time, and today I saw Flea play live.
Clearly, lutefisk doesn’t have anything to do with music, but it was because of lutefisk that I saw my life flash before my eyes, giving me a genuine fear that I was about to drop dead at the feet of the crazy Swedes chowing it down, never to experience live music again.
I’d like to say that trying it was a dare and I now have a large sum of money as a result, but that wouldn’t be true. I’d like to say the gelatinous goo-drenched substance was forced down my throat by a half-Sasquatch half-Nessie creature with the ‘roided-out strength of the entire Yankee lineup, but it was actually sheer curiosity that did it.
No one has ever been able to accurately describe lutefisk to me, but I find it quite easy: Lutefisk tastes like evil. If Scott Stapp and Chad Kroeger put out an album of duets, and then that album was made into a food, it would taste like lutefisk. Does that clarify?
In the end, it was my insatiable, burning desire to see Jimmy Page play live that gave me the willpower to survive my brush with death and carry on to today.
I like to pretend that because I grew up in River Falls, WI, the same metro-area town as Flea’s wife, that I have some sort of cosmic connection with him. I also like to pretend the same thing about Anthony Keidis simply because we have the same birthday. Pretending is fun, isn’t it?
No, wait…. If I’m using that line of logic, I also have a cosmic connection with Larry Flynt. Pretending has ceased to be fun.
Fortunately (or unfortunately?) I didn’t get the chance to discuss the crazy ways of the cosmos with Flea. I made the trek to the Burnsville Schmitt Music this afternoon, hoping to get an old RHCP ticket stub signed at Flea’s promotional autograph signing, but no such luck. The luck actually got better.
The managerial powers that be tried to turn everyone in line away by saying that we could never make it to the front by the time Flea had to be hurriedly whisked away to the airport. Some left, some stayed.
At about 3:15—the signing was supposed to be done by 4:00—the remaining faithful were quickly rushed into the store with the announcement that there were to be no more autographs, but that Flea was going to play.
JACKPOT!
He picked up a bass from his own Flea Bass line and went to town on that thing like a white girl on an NBA player! He started with a slow, more melodic line of improvisation, but about five minutes in, he switched to the hard and fast lines of bass-driven funk that we all know and love. Hard as I tried, I could not help but see Paul Rudd and Jason Segal standing Flea-side, “slappin’ da bass”.
The crowd was small and intimate, and all eyes were fixated on the tiny flannel-clad genius in front of us. There was nothing to do but stand back in total awe and let the magic happen. A true bass virtuoso of our time.
Before Flea rushed out of the store, half an hour before scheduled departure, he took the time to thank us, shake hands with a genuine smile, and tell us to stay warm. Thanks, man.
Pure evil and pure genius in the same 24-hour time span. Life is good.
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