Last Night: Kesha At House of Blues

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Kesha House of Blues July 26, 2010

If Lady Gaga is Chipotle, arguably the trendiest gourmet fast-food burrito on Earth, then Kesha is a frozen gas-station burrito. The kind that you buy drunk while you have gas on your hands, and ends up burning your mouth and you taste petrol funk for two days.

Thusly, Miley Cyrus would be that Big Mac wrap thing from McDonald's which we never for the life of us understood. Christina Aguilera is more than likely Freebirds, sporting pierced nipples but with her feet firmly in corporate America.

Meanwhile, Madonna is a Taco Bell bean and cheese burrito, because she did it all first. y'all, and she was so strong to raise a baby by herself and junk et al. Oh my God you guys, Taco Bell was an innovator, you don't even know. Do you remember when they first made chalupas? We cried they were so good.

Along this same flow of logic, Britney Spears is a soggy limp-lettuce Jack in the Box taco. Why not a burrito? What was the question again? Leave Jack in the Box alone!

Back to Kesha, though, who Monday night played a sold-out show at House of Blues in front of a sea of what we could only describe as sweaty, lusty teens, wailing, howling and acting fake drunk.

With all the screaming before Kesha, HOB sounded like one of those church-sponsored Hell Houses where you can gander at all the fake sinners and dolled-up drug addicts in the hopes that you won't smoke a joint or a touch another boy's buttocks in a salacious manner.

Aftermath was, of course, lumbering around in the crowd tweeting, while trying to not look like one of the bad guys from a home-security commercial, keeping to ourselves and not making eye contact with any of the kids.

In the music-journalism scene, the people are represented by two separate yet equally important groups: The journalists, who investigate musical crimes; and the fans, who throw money at the offenders. These are our tweets from Monday night.

Free Guardasil shots in the smoking section at the Kesha show.

You know what, don't ask a stranger for a cigarette and certainly don't ask to use their cellphone. In a crowd of one thousand little girls and one hundred horny pissed-off guys, you picked Snidely Hipsterlash to bum a smoke from?

Poor Marc Brubaker, he looked like he was walking into the bait house on To Catch A Predator. As for Aftermath, this phone is only for tweeting while we are at shows, sister. And maybe texting our mother.

Guess what? Not gonna use the dollar sign either tonight when we mention Kesha.

You haven't earned the right to make us to have to use the shift key in order to type your name. Not after one album, two singles and one song about partying at a rich dude's house. You will care when we throw up in your closet. All we have eaten all day is vinegar chips and a bottle of water.

We would rather be at any ICP show. Anywhere in the world.

I feel like I am walking in a mass sex crime. I don't want anyone to look at me.

Why is that? Because Juggalos don't do nearly as much dry-humping as we saw last night. At least our fellow Juggs bring their own cigarettes and don't just act drunk. They actually get drunk. Openers Dirt Nasty (right) and Beardo were like ICP if Violent J and Shaggy 2 Dope had dads that owned car dealerships.

I really want her to actually be playing that guitar. I also hope no one takes my picture here. I wanna be president some day.

This whole show is Peaches-derived. But Peaches had a college degree and more hair on her legs than I have on my head.

The music just needs a small nudge in the right direction. Better drugs? More drugs?

Here's the messed-up thing, and we mean this with every shred of sincerity we can scrape from the bottom of our barrel: With some extra grime and maybe a better producer, Kesha could be lethal one day. Not in the overdose or car-crash way either. If she stopped Auto-Tuning everything to death and embraced a truer decadence, she may have a chance at something.

Her band wasn't bad either. The girls and guys looked affable and scummy enough to have been in L7 or the Blood Brothers, respectively. It's not hard music to play, we assume, with all the big dumb riffs and keyboards. At least you can explore sonics with an artist like Kesha. No one will hear the difference while hopped up on vodka and Red Bull and crushed-up diet pills.

After this and Sunday's Lady Gaga show, Aftermath has now come to the conclusion that perhaps Peaches was way more innovative and groundbreaking than we previously thought. Remember when we all woke up that one day in 1999 and Weezer was the new Beatles? That's what 2010 is for Peaches. Have a headache yet?

Is this song called "Fuck Your Little T-Shirt"?

It's actually called "(Fuck Him) He's A DJ," which makes the fact that a five-year old barefoot child singing it on her dad's shoulders the icing on the Baskin-Robbins chocolate ice cream cake of a night that Monday night was.

The show was over in less than 45 minutes. By our estimation, Kesha and her band at least played the whole Animal album. We were expecting a cover or something, but no dice.

But we did get to hear "Dinosaur," which is about an old dude hitting on younger girls. It sounds like a Barney & Friends B-side from 1993, their experimental robo-funk days. The best thing about this song is that it teaches kids how to spell dinosaur in a playful, Lolita-esque manner. Nabokov references like whoa!

Personal Bias: We once watched two straight episodes of The Hills while we had the flu last winter. Does that count?

The Crowd: Your little sister, her girlfriends, your ex-girlfriend and a group of dads drinking scotch in the corner.

Overheard in the Crowd: "OMG, LOL, LULZ, ROFLAO, TMI, :), ;), and bitch."

Random Notebook Dump: Why are people so pissed about a new Walmart coming to Houston when this was right in their faces?

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