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Tyler And The Ta-Ta's

A flash of inspiration at Aerosmith

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Last Tuesday, Verizon Wireless Amphitheatre was packed and stacked with nearly 20,000 rock fans, young and old, who'd come to check out Aerosmith and Kid Rock. And with it being a capacity crowd, you know what that meant: lines -- everywhere you freakin' turned, if you could in fact turn around. Put it this way, even guys had to wait in long lines to go to the bathroom... even at the porta-johns. And although the kid from Detroit did pack "em in early to see his over-the-top opening set, I was surprised to see most of the females present were really there to check out the aging rockers from Baltimore. Four teenage girls, seated directly behind me, had designed their own Aerosmith t-shirts and once Steven Tyler and company hit the stage, the glass-shattering shrieks started... and one couldn't even keep her shirt on. Determined that Tyler must see her knockers, she climbed on the shoulders of her tallest girlfriend but the first few flashes suffered from bad timing, what with the house lights dimming at the moment of exposure and such -- although the guys in front of us got plenty of peep show action and actually started watching her more than the band. Finally, a fella, who I actually thought at first might be an undercover cop, came over and offered the girl a lift. Next thing I know, Tyler is pointing out her tits and telling one of his ditties about how they were the pair that once got away or something like that. I know, he probably wasn't exactly looking at her face at the time, but obviously he didn't notice that she was probably younger than most of his own kids. -- Lynn Farris

After a long half-week at work, sometimes a man just needs to go sit in a smoke-free establishment and listen to a singer-songwriter with a big growly voice sing about heartbreak and despair. And so, last Wednesday, I headed to the Evening Muse to see Americana bigwig Richard Buckner. Buckner, as I noted above, is a large man with an equally large voice that suggests some calamity of nature in the sheer rumble it contains. By the time I arrived, plenty of folks were assembled, some setting up portable tape machines to bootleg the show.Buckner, apparently, was in a confessional mood, as most of his songs seemed more melancholic and resigned than usual. It was good stuff, even sort of eerily beautiful, but almost hard to take after seven or eight songs or so. As if on cue, a Scene inspiration arrived. The friendly doorman at the Muse motioned me aside and said a friend of his had called with news that Edwin McCain and Kevn Kinney were playing at the Visulite Theatre. OK, so that wasn't the real news. The real news was that none other than Kid Rock had shown up on Elizabeth Avenue to sing with the two Southern troubadours. Hopping into a car, I zipped across town to arrive precisely when the show ended. Rock was hustled to a waiting car, and I was left to wonder why I drove across town to see Kid Rock instead of staying for the rest of the show of a performer generally acknowledged as an "artist." And I've come to no real conclusions, frankly, other than it would make for a better blurb for you, the reader, and I was just doing my job. Yep, that's the reason. Huh? What's that? Kid was seen later that night at Thomas Street Tavern? With Kinney and McCain and a few Coors Lights? And I missed it? Damn! -- Tim C. Davis

Friday night, God smiled. Yes, I entered a holy building, and no, it was not called Manifest Discs. The Steeple, a new nightclub/lounge located in an old church on Pecan Avenue, celebrated their grand opening. It's a nice place, and having to wait outside on the steps before you enter does give the place a bit of a holy feel, even when folks (mostly girls) in schoolgirl outfits and bondage gear walked past. After enduring the wearying stares of Observer writer Tonya Jameson and her posse whilst waiting in line, I entered the sanctuary, pulsing with music and people. And what people! Few clubs in town could effectively mix the crowd that was there: people in Dockers and button-down shirts, T-shirts and jeans (OK, that was me), thrift store attire, suits, and the aforementioned goth accoutrements. Downstairs at the Steeple is more the place of worship, whether it be at the bar, with the music, or with the opposite sex. Upstairs, then, is more a place of reflection, with leather couches and a neat-and-clean sort of future/retro decor. It was so nice, in fact, that I didn't necessarily want to leave, though I knew I had to. This moment of clarity came when I stood up, looked into the mirror over the couch I was sitting on, and thought, "Hey, there's more people outside!" I soon realized that A) I was on the second floor and it would have to be a gathering of Yao Ming, Dikembe Mutombo and Shaquille O'Neal for me to have seen them, and B) one of them looked just like me. I deduced that fact by the T-shirt and jeans, in case you're wondering. -- Tim C. Davis

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