La Dolce Musto
March 24-30, 2004, by Michael Musto
Last Wednesday, America’s sweetheart, COURTNEY LOVE, did an already legendary 35-minute set at Plaid that still has me both showering and cheering. The crazed hoopla started before the show, when an employee encouraged me to get away from an inside doorway, alerting, “She’s gonna come through this way, and I saw her push, like, 10 people before. Just a warning!”
Sure enough, Courtney came barreling in like a stealth bomber, then bizarrely looked around and asked people, “Where’s the stage?” She found it and started testing the microphones-and the crowd-but you could only pick out words from her bouncy babble: “Diet Coke . . . HIV positive . . . Janet Jackson.” “Shut the fuck up, bitch!” yelled the same guy who told her where the stage was, throwing a drink her way, but mercifully missing.
“This is gonna be the worst show you’ve ever seen,” Courtney promised, “or the best.” It was both. It was messy but special, ragged but strangely upbeat (if definitely dangerous). Her voice was raspy, no doubt from court and/or Letterman appearances, not to mention smoking onstage, but her fuck-you attitude was especially precious in this hideous age of renewed puritanism. After she sang a tune on a riser, I heard Courtney crack to the audience, “Thanks for not raping me. That’s the first time that hasn’t happened in 10 years!” With a lot of help from her lady backups, she tried on some standards (“Malibu”), rocked out a cover (“Voices Carry”), and divided the audience. (One claque was sardonically screaming, “How did you kill Kurt?” but others seemed deliriously happy to be there.)
She even did a spiel about me-some long dedication that culminated with “That was my Oscar! Pretty girls always win. Do you know what I’m saying, Michael?” I nodded yes, but had no freakin’ idea. More intelligibly, Courtney also told the crowd she’s sorry she used to ring my buzzer all those years ago when she kinda stalked me. Please, it was the highlight of my early life. Immediately after the show, Courtney approached me and tried to explain her stage comments, but it still seemed like a big, colorful blur (though when she mentioned Aileen Wuornos, the Oscar comment made more sense; Courtney had been desperate to play the serial killer). As I left, two cops were waiting outside. Oh yeah, during the show, Courtney had, um, lost control of that mic stand and hit a guy in the head. “This is a witch hunt. She’s the MARTHA STEWART of punk,” the concert’s promoter, LYLE DEREK, told me the next day. Baby, if Courtney and Martha end up as cellmates, I’ll be ringing that buzzer for entertainment.