Walking into the PromoWest Ween concert on Friday night was like stepping into an asylum-turned-museum. The lighting was soft, the air conditioned, and the fans were like patients with disorders – raising their middle fingers toward the ceiling and gesticulating wildly. It should have been a classic Ween show, but instead it was a classic example of a band growing old outlived by their own ideals.
At around 8 p.m. the brothers Dean and Gene Ween hit the stage. Is it just me, or is it too early to start a show with only one band at 8:00 p.m? Seeing Ween a few years ago used to mean an excursion into the wee hours of the morning, dizzy from second-hand smoke and wishing for another day off to go see them in a different city. Now, a Ween show is a little less bacchanal, if not for the fans, at least for the band, which used to pass around bottles of Jack Daniels during sets. Now it’s merely a good imported beer that seems to suffice.
Not that I wish alcoholism on Ween, it’s just that moderation never used to be in their vocabulary. A certain immodesty is what once defined the Ween sound. Now in the light of decades of abuse, the brothers Ween – who are not related or really named “Ween”- have lost their edge. Songs from the new album, “Quebec,” like “Zoloft” were slow lounge numbers that didn’t stand out from the classics of the Ween repertoire.
The sound was excellent when Ween hit the groove on greats like “Voodoo Lady,” “Roses are Free” and “The Mollusk.” Even better were the offensive numbers where Ween takes pot shots at targets like hippies, coke heads, the Irish and Italians. Not that Ween never belonged to any of the above. They were all of the above, and their obscene lyrics only served as an indictment of themselves.
The triple – song encore was adequate with “Touch My Tooter” from 1992’s “Pure” Guava – my favorite Ween record – a standard version of the bootleg only “Booze me up and get me high” and their definitive rendition of Prince’s “Shockadelica.”
While the songs were played well and the mix was something akin to a roadtrip tape I once made, the show was anything but a milestone for Ween. The limitless creativity of Ween’s past was stifled. The show lacked luster for a band that once was a beacon for originality, social commentary and parody. A band capable of mimicking any style from the last 40 years of pop music culture could barely imitate the unbridled energy of the old Ween on Friday night.
Seeing Ween for the first time in Cleveland in 1999, I was mystified. By 2003, I was more than happy to see them, but something had changed. One of the Ween brothers had married in the last few years, and the live show suffers from a general “settling down.” No longer does Ween sacrifice itself for art by way of alcohol and drugs abuse. Gone are the days of young women climbing onstage to grind to the seductive rhythms of the Prince cover with two gangly white guys.
As we filed out of PromoWest at an unthinkable 10:30 p.m., I was left wanting more. After about two hours of Ween, I was not satiated. The length of the show is not in question – Ween can rock out – but the content was lacking. Ween has become a smiling shell of their former selves for their current finger-flipping fans. At least I have the CDs and the memories from a time when Ween mattered.
