Last Night: Kesha At House of Blues

Kesha A.jpg
Photos by Marc Brubaker
House of Blues
July 26, 2010

If Lady Gaga is Chipotle, arguably the trendiest gourmet fast-food burrito on Earth, then Kesha is a frozen gas-station burrito. The kind that you buy drunk while you have gas on your hands, and ends up burning your mouth and you taste petrol funk for two days.

Thusly, Miley Cyrus would be that Big Mac wrap thing from McDonald's which we never for the life of us understood. Christina Aguilera is more than likely Freebirds, sporting pierced nipples but with her feet firmly in corporate America.

Meanwhile, Madonna is a Taco Bell bean and cheese burrito, because she did it all first. y'all, and she was so strong to raise a baby by herself and junk et al. Oh my God you guys, Taco Bell was an innovator, you don't even know. Do you remember when they first made chalupas? We cried they were so good.

Along this same flow of logic, Britney Spears is a soggy limp-lettuce Jack in the Box taco. Why not a burrito? What was the question again? Leave Jack in the Box alone!

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Back to Kesha, though, who Monday night played a sold-out show at House of Blues in front of a sea of what we could only describe as sweaty, lusty teens, wailing, howling and acting fake drunk.

With all the screaming before Kesha, HOB sounded like one of those church-sponsored Hell Houses where you can gander at all the fake sinners and dolled-up drug addicts in the hopes that you won't smoke a joint or a touch another boy's buttocks in a salacious manner.

Aftermath was, of course, lumbering around in the crowd tweeting, while trying to not look like one of the bad guys from a home-security commercial, keeping to ourselves and not making eye contact with any of the kids.

In the music-journalism scene, the people are represented by two separate yet equally important groups: The journalists, who investigate musical crimes; and the fans, who throw money at the offenders. These are our tweets from Monday night.

Free Guardasil shots in the smoking section at the Kesha show.

You know what, don't ask a stranger for a cigarette and certainly don't ask to use their cellphone. In a crowd of one thousand little girls and one hundred horny pissed-off guys, you picked Snidely Hipsterlash to bum a smoke from?

Poor Marc Brubaker, he looked like he was walking into the bait house on To Catch A Predator. As for Aftermath, this phone is only for tweeting while we are at shows, sister. And maybe texting our mother.

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