See, I have an overwhelming suspicion of parking lot attendants out here in L.A. because I swear they inflate the price to snizz some extra cash on the side. With that said, I’ve never been more stoked to fork over $20 for parking to see BADBADNOTGOOD perform at The Regent Theater last Friday night.

Nestled in the northwest corner of Skid Row, this temple serves as a testament to all the celebrated glory left unaltered by the Scumbolitionists. The exterior was draped in glyphs that depict a time from when the grime was allowed to manifest without facing the immediate perils of janitors and street cleaners put in place by the Scumbolitionists, who recently usurped the previous administration with their radical blitzkrieg sanitary tactics. Scholars have unanimously concluded that the rabid fervor of the Scumbolitionist-controlled janitorial minions could only be likened to the unabating Mongolian horde of the 13th century. This being the case, The Regent was forced to uphold the strict sanitary policy enacted by the new Scumbolitionist legislation and as a consequence was looking a little too clean for comfort. That being said, it was clear that vast majority of the local populace was vehemently opposed to the aforementioned sanctions. After Dirty J received credible confirmation from a local permanent urban-camper that the venue had a residual scum layer from the Kaiser Crust era, we knew that the show would generate tremendous amounts of funk radiation, allowing us to enjoy the show as intended.

Getting in was as easy as spending sunny summer day at the dump, ideal. Once we flashed the main guard a pass he granted us passage into the scum pit directly in front of the crowd. The sound quality was impeccable, forcing my ears to nearly implode from the incessant and rapid deposition of grimy airborne particulate matter received directly from all the musicians on stage. The bassist was 100% hammer, same with the sax player, Leland Whitty. They were the main dudes talking to the audience, akin to the great orators of the Dirty Bastards, the long-withstanding opposition party of the Scumbolitionists that led repeated uprisings in defiance of the Scumbolitionist movement and its associates.

Opening up with a simple imploration for the crowd to get hyped for the weekend, BBNG began to dish out heavy doses of raw, unadulterated funk radiation. With a forceful power-thrust, Matthew Tavares, the pianist, deeply penetrated the sonic barrier with barbaric fervor. Meanwhile, in a trance of complete savagery, the drummer Alexander Sowinski began to resemble a Zulu warlord, forcefully cranking the funk pump until the funk reservoirs ran dry. The funk elixir was promptly distributed among the audience according to USDA regulation.

He then asked everyone to wave their hands in the sky and let the scum winds possess their innermost being. This caused the pianist to enter a reverie of his own, mimicking the sounds of the winds which most believed to be only an urban legend, equally inconceivable as the fabled Scumsquatch of the Canadian boreal forests. As the high-velocity winds were summoned, the remaining two band members were thrust into the midst of a funk whirlwind, forcing them to go airborne and circumnavigate the stage. The pianist was able to remain intact and melodic throughout the seance, but the saxophonist and the drummer were rag-dolled across the stage until they congealed in the middle of the stage, finally bringing tranquility upon the peasantry. The pianist’s improvisation led to one of the gnarliest drops into a song we’ve ever heard, “Confessions,” causing him to go back into hunter-gatherer mode once more.

The show was phenomenal, yet sadly there was no time for an encore following a heated series of events toward the end of the show. After thanking the crowd of Dirty Bastards for their attendance en masse and unrelenting support, the band was forced to quickly flee out the back entrance, narrowly evading the ensnaring clutches of Scumbolitionist enforcement officials who got wind of the event. Once we caught a whiff of air freshener, we had a feeling we were in for trouble. Swarms of hostile enforcement officials inundated the theater with thermal Ozium bombs and Pledge Multi-Surface flashbangs that served to disperse the Dirty Bastard phalanx. Little did the hygienic officials know that this act of aggression would galvanize the phalanx into complete hive mentality; they would stop at nothing to protect their beloved queen, BBNG.

However, before BBNG was able to abscond from the Scumbolist brigade via the funk portal, a band member had one last important message to deliver to the quarreling masses. The drummer, Alexander Sowinski, urged the hive that we need to unite and not build barriers between us, while simultaneously condoning the healthy deposition of a nominal crust layer. He praised the fabled theories of Kaiser Crust while denouncing the radical proposals of George W. Clean. We noticed that our window of opportunity to 86 the venue was closing and so we lunged feet-first through the funk portal with hopes of reaching a land where scum, debauchery, and the pursuit of filthiness predominate upon the populous. May Scumlord grant us strength.


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