Cage The Elephant: Yes, please. Cage it. Forever.

There ain't no rest for wicked?  Well, that might be true--who knows?  Satan may very well have rested on the seventh day too.  One thing I know for certain to be true is that there ain't no rest for those forced to listen to the mindless, juvenile clamorings of Cage The Elephant.

Everyone knows (and Paris Hilton capitalized on the fact) that with the right producer and the right money backing you, anyone can be made to sound decent.  Hell, almost anyone can be made to sound good.  And if you're Anthony Keidis, your lisp can even be magically digitalized away.  A true test of a band's prowess, or lack thereof, can only be seen at their live shows.  A good band will sound, at the very least, equally as good as they sound recorded with little-to-no "what the hell was that?" surprises.  A great band will, at the very least, blow it's recorded self out of the water, causing fans to re-think spending their hard earned cash on basic needs like food and shelter and instead spend it on a fan club membership for the sole purpose of getting pre-sale tickets to the latest tour.

(Note:  I fully realize that CTE is getting good reviews all over the music community, but by this point, I'm in too deep.  I already made an indirect comparison to Paris Hilton, so I have to keep on with my assault against mediocrity.)

My first through third run-ins with Cage the Elephant's live show came this past fall when they opened for Stone Temple Pilots in Saint Paul, Chicago, and Cleveland:

Saint Paul
As soon as CTE's stage was set up, I knew there was going to be a problem: I expected to see a logo or maybe even an elephant on their bass drum, but I didn't.  Instead, I saw a panda.  Not the cute, furry variety, mind you, but a bloody panda, gnawing on another unfortunate mammal with blood running out of it.  Classy.  Ironically, said panda was sitting amongst bamboo, so there was really no need for such violence and gore -- the bamboo would've happily conceded and no blood needed to be shed.  At this point, I'm thinking that any band that puts a bloody mess of a fine creature on their bass drum has a tuning key loose.

Realistically, that's just cosmetic, so I hoped that the band would deliver something of more substance.  I'd heard a lot about them, so I wanted to give the benefit of the bass drum doubt.

From the moment they started in on their first song I knew I was in for a long set, and a long set in Chicago and Cleveland too, for that matter.  Their frontman (I refuse to call him a singer, for the fact that his vocal talent matches that of the Atlanta Real Housewife who is "working on her singing career"), Matt Schultz, came out with one goal: to assault our ears.  And it worked!  Congratulations, Matt!  In one song you managed to make me believe your poignant lyric "The crowd will only like me if they're really fuckin' drunk".  The problem is that I did not do my homework and learn their lyrics before the show.  If I had, I would've shown up drunk and hopeful, but alas, I was sober and irritated.


As the set went on, Matt seemed intent on convincing the crowd that he was less of a singer (which I already believed) and more of a medical marvel.  How he could seizure his way across the stage and remain standing was truly a miracle.  Halleluiah!  (hands raise, eyes close)  

It wasn't until 3/4 of the way through their set that they came through with their big single "Ain't No Rest For the Wicked".  I had hope!  Maybe they could nail their single!  Thirty seconds in and I realized that Matt had less chance of nailing the notes of his single than he had of nailing me or my friend post-show.  He has no range, sings less than he simply "talks", and he is constantly wheezing his inhales into the mic, no doubt from exhaustion of convulsing around the stage.

Chicago
I truly did step into this show with an open mind and open ears.  This time I was front row, center, instead of front right, so maybe it was a whole different experience a dozen people to the left.  I was hoping so, anyway.

Hope, I learned, is a fickle, fickle thing.

This time, I had a choice: I could stand there and take it, or I could try to make an enjoyable 45 minutes of it.  I chose the latter, making a lovely game of "Lyrics and Sarcasm".  It's an easy enough game, and anyone can play.  You simply listen intently to every word you hear, and make sarcastic comments back to the "singer"/convulser/stage idiot.

Here are a few CTE examples:

They say that we ain't got the style, we ain't got the class
We ain't got the tunes that's goin' to put us on the map
"They" are right as far as lacking style and class go, but I DO feel like I'm meeting you on some kind of map....the Road to Hell?

Rock and roll is dead, I probably should've stayed in school
Ahhh....a self-aware man-child!  You just won yourself a point with me!

They say the devil is my pal, I do a lotta drugs
Really?  I wouldn't have guessed.  You seem so salt-of-the-earth. 

The stunt that really cinched the Chicago show for me though was Brad Schultz, the guitarist.  Nearing the end of their set, Brad was having technical difficulties (which actually livened things up!) and was messing around with his equipment.  After a couple meager attempts to rectify the situation, it culminated in the rockest of wanna-be rocker moves: he took off his guitar, held it high above his head, and BAM!  Down it came!  The crowd goes wild!  The cliché is complete!  No one appeared to have told him that the guitar smashing period is long gone, nor that watching someone who looks like an 18 year-old pretending to be a rock star isn't nearly as fulfilling as watching actual, bona fide rock stars.  Enter: Stone Temple Pilots.

Cleveland
By this point, I can't take it any more.  I can't play the game, and I can't listen.  I'm ready to go backstage, wrestle the prescription painkillers out of Scott Weiland's veinless hand, stuff them in my mouth and wash them down with Jack Daniels.  Anything to put me out of my misery.


And now, with the newest CTE singles overtaking the airwaves, I look to find escape.  Please, dear radio, let me out of this hell of dying pandas bleeding their way through my daily nightmare!  I look to find sanctuary and solace in the most logical place possible, in the one place where Payola has no power and musical intellect and taste reigns supreme:  The Current.

Then Mary Lucia says she likes them.  Fuck.

I immediately make the executive decision to tune in to Mark Wheat more often.  I bet he thinks they're "wankers" with a "ghastly" sound.  Please Mark, give me hope.