The Firebird. 2/6/2013.
"Yo, this is fucked up. Listen."
Blowfly shuffled on stage last night to spit his piece on pussy hell, incredible fucks and the real first rap. In a world with justice, it would have been shoulder-to-shoulder and cramped, but the Firebird was only half full, with enough room to break dance but no one shaking their asses. If you don't know Blowfly, you need a damn history lesson, but that's not my job. I was blessed by Blowfly's raunchy, raucous performance last night, but not before a baptism by Black James.
Black James brought dancers (who would later fill in for Blowfly's missing crew) and piled on this swerving jam for thirty minutes. Taxidermy, pink hair, sweat and squeals sum it up. You don't see Blowfly for the brains, but for the balls, so I imagine Black James hit the brakes on the heady stuff for the sake of congruity. Her mystic shriek felt gutsy on a bill that, for the most part, was about novelty rather than subtlety.
"We want the bitches who want the dick daily." The FuFops kept things real classy, double-fisting PBR tallcans and slinging hybrid R&B faux rap. Mikey Wehling and the Reverbs sounded stoked on the 'Dead and funk and pushed plenty of synth. These openers were brilliantly picked for the show -- here we have weird women, followed by pervy dudes, then stoner jams. Then, Blowfly's set married all three.
Blowfly was quick to grab my girlfriend, kiss her hand and tell her how he "fucked some bitch that looked just like her last night." After calling my dick "puny," he shared wisdom about his own giant dick, as well as some thoughts on Michael Jackson's ghost.
Subscribe now to get the latest news delivered right to your inbox.