Musicians are a crazy lot. I don't have to mention Syd Barrett, Rick James, or that Brian Jonestown Massacre temper tantrum dude to prove just how many artists are a few acorns short of a nuthouse. There's something about the freaks, though, that draws the groupies out in spades. The fans want to hear you, see you, touch you, give you their shitty band's demo, tell you they met you back in 1996 at a party with that guy whatshisnuts; they want it all. The business of mainstream rock starism is such a formulaic spiel that being kinda touched in the head has its advantages. Vincent Gallo may act demented, but in the end, the guy takes being an eccentric all the way to your bank account. And why not? He's pretty genuinely talented - in both the arts and the marketing of said arts.

Any casual shopper at www.vgmerchandise.com knows there's nothing Gallo won't sell. You can buy his baby making seed for a cool million. Ladies - the ones who were "naturally born female" -- can have a "fantasy night" with the creator/star of Buffalo 66 and Brown Bunny for upwards of $50,000. (Entertainers take note - if a devotee wants to be the Chloe Sevigny to your erect member that badly, why give away for free what you can charge to MasterCard?). Eight-track cassettes he scratched his ass with are $200. Dog shit he's stepped in costs the price of a small island. So really, in reviewing Gallo's Mission Creek Music Fest show at Bimbo's, let's cut to the chase and discuss his merch.

You want this underwear set? Sixty bucks, pal. Gallo doesn't go down on your crotch for cheap.

Take home that shirt of Gallo and George Bush and you're drinking well whiskey for the rest of the year -- you and the 13 other suckers who can't screenprint at home.

Gallo's artwork went for around $40 a pop. CDs skyrocketed from $20. People ate this shit up. Luckily, though, there was still a signed copy of his Paper magazine interview available at the end of the night. Phew.

Feeding Gallo's fragile ego one $20 at a time.

I couldn't hear what this Gallo patron was saying, but I'm sure it was something like you've got to give it up for VG. It takes balls to be such a tongue and cheek whore. I bet there are a ton of artists that'd love to charge $50 for their hangnails, but they just slap their band names on 5,000 American Apparel tees and call it a day. Gallo is one smart cocktease, simultaneously creating his artiste notoriety and expensing you for taking note of it.

I got busted for having a camera at the show, so my Kodak spent most of the evening behind the coat check (Gallo refused to allow cameras, opening acts, or house music to mar the mood of his performance). So no live footage of Gallo rocking here--no photos of he and friend Sean Lennon trading off playing bass, double necked guitar, acoustic guitar, and keyboards. But I can tell you the show ruled. (And I did shoot photos for the 45 minutes Gallo stuck around to meet chicks and local band dudes after the show. Images below).

If you've seen Gallo's movies, you're familiar with the kind of soundscapes he goes for. It's dreamy, ethereal stuff. Gallo might not have known the name of the festival he was performing at but he knew how to cast a spell on the crowd. His moody, merlot-friendly torch songs were cinematic even in such a stripped down setting (it was just he and Lennon all night). They performed postmodern romantic odes, referencing Gallo's affinity for prog rock (specifically his Yes obsession) and wooing the crowded room with their cozy vibe. Although Gallo's supersized ego is usually the first thing he confronts you with, his music is infectiously intimate and personal; his vocals are featherweight, offering just a light dusting of that Gallo persona. He performed a beautiful cover of "Autumn Leaves," a song he said his father taught him, and joked with Lennon about which McCartney song he liked the best.

Gallo was really affable and upbeat between songs, despite claming, "I hardly play live so I'm a little uptight tonight," and saying he'd lost his voice because he'd spent a recent afternoon "sitting in my car and screaming."

Other things Gallo admitted on stage: that he never dated PJ Harvey (she was "just a friend"); that he was never friends with Chloe Sevigny ("she was Harmony's friend"); that he still has a thing for an ex named Vicky who lives in SF; that his first job in New York was as a male prostitute (shocker).

As mentioned, Gallo stuck around for a while after the show, signing autographs (for free, mind you) and getting his scruffy mug shot multiple times. This guy randomly played the piano for part of the impromptu "meet and greet." That was nice.

And this guy filmed the swarm of Gallo true believers.

I met some cool girls hanging out after the show. This one had a bouquet of daisies, a CD, and a card for Mr. Gallo.

The Bimbo's crowd was well dressed for the evening -- high class all the way.

But really, when you're drunk by 11 on a Friday night, class can get kinda overrated kinda fast. We skipped out on Gallo's offer - to the entire audience, during his show - to come visit the poor lonely star at his Phoenix hotel room (I'm about $50,000 short for that one), and hit one of the most slamming, debaucherous monthlies San Francisco has going, Blow Up at the Rickshaw. It's always a blast. My gut tells me this is promoter/DJ Jefrodesiac on the turntables, but my gut has been wrong so many times before (especially when it's stewing in so much red wine).

Blow Up is great. People hit it sloppy drunk and really dance their ass - or just their pants - off.

All the kids are dancing these days.

How can you go wrong with Too Short? (Although I loved hearing that damn hooky Gnarls Barkley hit, "Crazy" a little more)

Note: the Rickshaw stop has actual rickshaws for you to lounge in.

Turquoise.

Scorpion Man - aka Gold Chains - took the stage late night. I really couldn't tell you what he sounded like at that point in my booze consumption (other than it was loud, and electronic). I can tell you that in person he looked like he should either be slathered with oil in South Beach or doing the 2006 comeback tour in Tears for Fears.

By the end of the evening, everyone was aglow with the memories all the fun that'd been had, even if we didn't come home to Vincent Gallo's mint condition drool on our pillows.
- Jennifer Maerz

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