Sad, sad Blackberry photo of the stage.
Last week, for just the first or second times in my life, I experienced a big earthquake, a hurricane, shooting a gun, and playing a piano. But, combined, they weren’t as weird as Reggie Watts at Woolly Mammoth.
Friend Meghan and I had seen him open for Conan last summer, and he left us both wanting to see more. With his solo return to town, we grabbed friend Emily, stuffed ourselves full of meat at Hill Country BBQ (review to come in future food-driven post) and got second row seats.
Emily may have had the best summary reaction: “That was so strange, but exactly what I needed.” Reggie, as is his usual, spent the majority of his act telling nonsensical stories and singing syllables but not entire words of songs. When he wasn’t, he was explaining earthquakes, the hurricane (white supremacists) and how, in song, to make pot cookies.
The Post‘s preview was great this way. “First-timers at a Reggie Watts show usually take a while deciding what to make of him. The strangely dressed 39-year-old, panda-shaped and sporting an aurora-like Afro, may show up speaking in an erudite British accent or mumbling like a particularly dim hip-hop fan.” The pictures with this lede were epic, by the way. “His riffs can begin in stand-up comedy mode, veer into a bit of beatboxing, then trail off in a tangle of dubious scientific jargon.”
That was Friday night in a nutshell. The crowd was odd. Half looked to be near 60. But they seemed to have a good time. Was even stranger to them, I figured, but exactly what they needed. If you laughed when a grown man dropped a microphone on the floor and then dragged it slowly across the floor to get it back to its stand, you were my people.