Reviews

About three songs into Ween's concert at the Middle East last Saturday night, singer Gene Ween quit following the play sheet. "I got a 'Fat Lenny' vibe tonight, Dean," he said. "Let's do 'Fat Lenny."

"You wanna do it?" said guitarist Dean Ween. "It's not on the list, man."

"Fat Lenny!" screamed the crowd. "Fat Lenny!"

Dean Ween looked over at the sound man, grinned, and launched into the opening riff. The crowd surged forwards, fists in the air, and Gene began to sing. People were mouthing the words. "Fat Lenny's gonna walk right into mah self...Fat Lenny's gonna lick my head off..." Gene was swaying with the microphone stand. "This a story 'bout mah friend Fat Lenny," he shrieked. Rock 'n' roll glory streamed from his face. The crowd went nuts. We were in the presence of greatness.

Not fame, mind you. Not even talent, really, though Gene and Dean are no slouches at the music. Their talent has been subverted to a higher purpose, what Sacvan Berkovitch might call the Myth of Rock. While other bands try purge themselves of the excesses of rock and roll, Ween wallows in inane lyrics and guitar heroism and overblown sound effects. They don't deny that rock is bullshit; their music celebrates it. On vinyl, this means double albums, and songs imitating anyone and everyone: their first album, God Ween Satan--the Oneness, features an eight-minute Prince cover, a 20-second sendup of John Fogarty, and a whole lot of stuff between those extremes. If they have what can be called a "style," it is basic crashing party punk, filtered through a thick cloud of pot smoke and overlaid with whatever flourishes they feel like adding at the moment.

So Ween hit the stage Saturday night like arena rock superstars. Two young guys in ratty t-shirts, with a drum machine, acting as if they were our saviors, our idols, the band we'd wanted to see all our lives. And we bought it. People were moshing in a tiny area, sloshing back and forth on top of the crowd. Stage diving. Screaming out requests. Dean and Gene were rocking out. "Man," Dean said, after one of the faster songs. "That was tight." It was.

They have a new album out, Pure Guava, but they weren't pushing it in the song selection. When you have no hits, you can play whatever you want, and they did. There was a ripping version of "You Fucked Up," their anti-love anthem from God Ween Satan. They had a brand-new song, in fake French. Gene crooned it slyly, touching the outstretched arms of the crowd. "Voulezvous...croissant...Schweppes...fuck you."

"Captain Fantasy," from The Pod, was tremendous. Gene skipped the electronic effects in favor of vocal stunts, sliding his voice up into falsetto and filling the spaces between lines with fake echoes, mugging theatrically all the while. For all the irony and foolishness, he can actually sing. And Dean can really play guitar. That's kind of their dirty little secret, and it's what makes the whole rock star act work. It was like hanging out with your buddies while they play some songs in the garage, and you're all pretending it's the Meadowlands. Only there's a real crowd and a real sound system.

It was, start to finish, a perfect act, and a perfect parody of a rock concert. We ate it up. Dean thrashed his head in headbanger circles as he played. Gene wandered to the rear of the stage and set up his microphone. "I'm doin' backup vocals on this one," he explained. They did "Tick," noisier and faster than the album's version. They did "Marble Tulip Juicy Tree," with more vocal tricks by Gene. They did songs nobody knew, and songs everybody was requesting. They talked to the audience the whole time. We talked back.

Finally, they put down the guitars and left the stage, and everybody knew what was next. As one, we started stomping our feet and chanting "Ween! Ween! Ween!" I've never been at a concert where everyone wanted the encore so badly. After a few minutes, Gene reappeared, holding his acoustic guitar, and began to play the ballad "Birthday Boy." We were swaying. Somebody held up a lighter. Then Gene stopped. "Shit, I forgot how this part goes. Oh, man." He tried a few chords. "Damn." Somebody from the pit climbed up on stage to help him figure it out, but it didn't work. "Anything else you wanna hear?" he said sheepishly.

Then Dean came back out, holding a beer. He tried to show Gene what to do, but their second attempt at "Birthday Boy" didn't work, either. So they exploded into the Beastie-Boys-flavored "Old Queen Cole," instead, and the little pit roiled with renewed frenzy. They closed the encore, in proper arena-rock tradition, with a slow number. In this case, it was "Puffy Cloud," and Gene led us all in a sing-along. "Drift away on a puffy cloud/ go away on a puffy cloud," we sang. "My brain is dead from too much pot/ 'Cause Dean and I smoke too much pot...Cloudy cloudy cloudy cloud/ Cloudy cloud cloudy cloud..."

"We fuckin' love you!" some guy was screaming. "We fuckin' love you!"

Dean smiled. "Buy a t-shirt, 'he said. I did. They were only ten bucks. Rock 'n' roll.