Photos by Kirk Kline
Following a trail of destruction is easy. You might have seen the path of tornadoes in Oklahoma as they swooped and destroyed neighborhoods. Walking up to the LC on Sunday night the path of destruction was evident. You could see sticky dried brown liquid on the ground and you could hear it with every step. Yup, high fructose corn syrup all over the ground and that means one thing; the Insane Clown Posse were in town.
The Dark Carnival was on one side of the street and Ringling Brothers on the other side. Both have clowns and both have differing types of clientele. Police were stationed facing the LC. Kirk tried asking the cop a question and was ignored. He knew where we were headed. We knew where we were headed. Ugh. You could hear juggalos over the traffic “WOOT WOOT!”
Punk isn’t dead. It just molests children.
The overall theme of the night was family and weed as every act referenced it in abundance. Unfortunately, Kirk and I missed Kittie but we were fortunate enough to catch Coolio. Breathe deep donewaiting readers, Coolio still has a haircut that no adult male, male pattern baldness or not, should wear. He looked like Lobot from Star Wars. He sounded like the D.O.C post car accident from the “$20 sack pyramid”. Pop stardom killed this man and his crack addiction probably hasn’t helped either. Plastic bottles rained down on Coolio and his crew for the duration of the set. No one cared until “Gangstas Paradise”. At no point would I ever call Coolio a great rapper/ performer but placating an audience of juggalos is ridiculous. Hang it up.
Doc Brown came from 1992 to DJ this shit.
Next came a DJ set from Mike E. Clark who was dressed as a mad scientist/ doctor. We saw him running through the crowd and some real juggalos didn’t know whom dude was (poseurs). We didn’t either (definite poseurs) until he had set up in a DJ booth. He played the Chop Chop Slide. If you are not familiar part of the chorus goes
“Fuck, shit, pussy, ass, motherfuckin, damn, bitch Bitch, damn, motherfuckin, ass, pussy, shit, fuck”
Play that at your next wedding to find out who is really real. Mike had a brief but entertaining DJ set that acted as a nice segue to keep the masses at bay while the Kottonmouth Kings set up.
Here are some dusted juggalos searching for the Earth’s anus.
We all may know someone whose entire existence is encompassed by marijuana. Often this infatuation comes off as entirely corny unless you’re Redman or in Electric Wizard. Now, I know absolutely nothing about the Kottonmouth Kings but what they made clear is that they love marijuana. When they stormed the stage the juggalo audience was rabid. The Kings debuted their newest member “THE MOTHERFUCKING DIRTBALL!” Welcome to Columbus, Dirtball. I hope you enjoyed your stay and scored some Meigs county gold.
Their set could be summed up as weed, getting drunk, stompin people out, weed, getting drunk and smoking weed, Sublime quotes and weed. Their set was dedicated to anyone who been judged, arrested or convicted for smoking marijuana. At times Kottonmouth Kings sounded like a step below some z-grade forgettable southern rap group. Other times they were playing hardcore punk or actually having hardcore punk played while they “rapped” over it. The hardcore connection actually exists because one member was in Doggy Style who released a number of forgettable LPs in the 80’s.
It is at this point in the evening where small doses work best. I was entertained for 10 minutes and then reality of a long torturous evening set in. The audience was treated to about 45 minutes of songs like “Put It Down” which urges listeners to put the down the weed while the Kottonmouth Kings tell you about weed in California. Despite my exhaustion, the Faygo fueled juggalos went berzerk the entire time.
It’s time. It’s time. It’s ICP time. I haven’t really touched on the variety of people that were at the LC on Sunday. There were two total standouts. First, the really tall individual dressed like Michael Myers from Halloween brought a legit murder vibe. Secondly, the dude with a carved pumpkin on his head with a LED light inside was awesome. There were dads there with their sons (both with painted faces). The interpretive dancers in lingerie were weird. There were a lot of baby mamas in the building.
When it comes to merch, there is no stone left unturned. Looking for an ICP football jersey size 5xl? Covered for $100. Did you lose your shoes running from your irate porn star looking girlfriend (she was there)? ICP shoes could be yours for $60. Looking to use the Saturday Night Special you stuck in the bushes on Neil but don’t have a mask? Twenty-five bones will nab you a ski mask.
I’ve seen Shangri-La and it looks a lot like the west side.
When it comes to understanding the average ICP fan it would help if you grew up in the middle of nowhere. If you spent time living in the country you may understand country ugly and country hot. I moved waaay out in the sticks when I was in 5th grade and I will never forget the people that rode my school bus. Not because of anything that they did but for how weird they were. If you were country ugly, you were an outcast. This is the ICP demographic, hillbillies who get their bit of culture from action movies, video games and the county fair. Every bit of the above culture is represented in ICP songs and performance.
ICP sent their grim reaper onto the stage and then their clown buddies. Finally, Shaggy 2 Dope and Violent J emerged to the throng of juggalos. People knew every word and then came the baptism. The clown buddies emerged and sprayed Faygo all over the audience while a backdrop flashed ICP with the hatchet man logo. This continued for about an hour, non-stop Faygo and non-stop lights. Epileptic germ-o-phobes need not apply. On occasion, the clown buddies would emerge and douse the audience in chicken feathers for “Chicken Huntin’ (the only ICP song I have ever heard and seemingly crowd favorite)”. The song “Fuck the World” features plenty of insight and intelligent thought with the lines
“Fuck the Beastie Boys and the Dali Llama Fuck the rain forest, fuck a Forrest Gump You probably like it in the rump” .
Ironically, “Miracles” followed which begs the question, what qualifies as a miracle because if a pelican is a miracle and rainforest can get fucked then… never mind. The interesting thing about “Miracles” is that a noticeable portion of the crowd left and the ones who stayed were less than enthused. Nail in the coffin, perhaps?
The action grew a bit redundant toward the end sorta like watching fireworks on the 4th of July. How many ways can you spray the audience with Faygo before the whole thing gets a tad stale? With all fireworks shows, there has to be a grand finale. ICP ended their set when the stage filled with members of the opening acts and they all partook in dousing the audience with Faygo while confetti rained down for the better part of 10 minutes. The vision of this spectacle was true pure American wasteland. People were getting hit in the head by flying two-liters and people were throwing them back at ICP. The outdoor speakers were dripping with Faygo. The song ended and ICP left without an encore. Could it be topped? No way.
Faygo! Faygo! Who wants Faygo?
The juggalos started to filter out of the LC. Some wringing their shirts soaked with Faygo into their mouths and others collecting two-liter bottles in boxes (I saved my two-liter). They all looked like refugees wandering out onto the street chanting “Woop Woop!”
I told you he was real.