So we're checked in and we're on the way up to the room. Who's in the elevator with us? John Popper from Blues Traveler. In person, he looks like a cartoon character, something waxy and a bit spooky about his motel tan. He's all effusive, wanting to make sure everyone in the elevator is coming to his showcase. Lonesome, Onry and Mean doesn't make eye contact. We have other plans.
Just in front of the hotel is the France Rocks tent. When we arrived, a rocking, raunchy band called Inspector Cluzo (who also occasionally go by the charming moniker The French Bastards) is blasting a too-good-looking crowd with some Motely Crue-ish rock. We signed up for this because it is run by the French Export Bureau and they have promised free wine. And they deliver. Despite a noon-ish huge carne guisada breakfast at Cisco's on E. 7th, by 2:30 we are buzzing.
Inspector Cluzo seems to think that yelling "Fuck you" and "Fuck" over the microphone is the sign of U.S. rock stardom. It's getting annoying, and getting in the way of the acceptance of their music, which is pretty good and often funny. The distracting impromptu fashion show is also getting in the band's way.