LL Cool J will host the 54th Annual Grammy Awards taking place tonight at 8 p.m. ET/PT at the Staples Center in Los Angeles, California.

Diana Ross will receive a Lifetime Achievement Award and performances include: Rihanna, Tony Bennett, Carrie Underwood, Chris Brown, Adele and more.

To honor Grammy-Award winning singer Whitney Houston, who died yesterday, Jennifer Hudson is expected to sing a medley of her hits. Alicia Keys and Bonnie Raitt will  pay tribute to Etta James.

Kanye West has seven nominations, topping Adele, Bruno Mars and Foo Fighters who each have six. Lil Wayne and Skrillex follow with five nominations.

8:00 p.m. Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band open the show. Bruce asks: “America, are you alive out there?”

8:04 p.m. LL Cool J, host of this year’s Grammy Awards, begins the show by addressing Whitney Houston’s death and saying a prayer.

8:07 p.m. A clip of Whitney Houston singing her hit song “I Will Always Love You” is played.

8:11 p.m. Bruno Mars performs in the style of James Brown.

8:20 p.m. Alicia Keys and Bonnie Raitt sing “A Sunday Kind of Love” in tribute to Etta James.

Adele accepts her first Grammy of the night

8:24 p.m. The first award of the night for Best Pop Solo Performance goes to Adele for “Someone Like You.”

8:25 p.m. Chris Brown takes the stage performing “Turn Up the Music” and “Beautiful People.”

8:36 p.m. Fergie  and Marc Anthony announce Jay-Z and Kanye West as the winners of the Best Rap Performance category for their song “Otis.” Both rappers are not in attendance.

8:37 p.m. Jason Aldean and Kelly Clarkson perform “Don’t You Wanna Stay.”

8:47 p.m. Foo Fighters perform outside the Staples Center. The group has already won four Grammys tonight.

8:56 p.m. Rihanna sings “We Found Love” then joins Coldplay to sing  ”Princess of China.” Coldplay then performs their hit song “Paradise.”

9:12 p.m. The Grammy for Best Rock Performance goes to Foo Fighters for “Walk.” Lead singer Dave Grohl said they made the record in his garage with a microphone and tape recorder.

Maroon 5 lead singer Adam Levine joins The Beach Boys on stage

9:16 p.m. Maroon 5 leads the celebration of the Beach Boys with “Surfer Girl.” Foster the People sings the next song “Wouldn’t It Be Nice.”

9:21 p.m. The Beach Boys reunite on their 50th anniversary and sing “Good Vibrations.” Maroon 5 and Foster the People join for the second half of the song.

9:30 p.m. This year’s Trustees Awards were given to Dave  Bartholomew, Steve Jobs and Rudy Van Gelder.

9:31 p.m. Stevie Wonder receives a standing ovation as he comes out to announce the next performer. Plays harmonica and sings as he introduces Paul McCartney.

9:32 p.m. Paul McCartney sings “My Valentine” sitting on a stool with an orchestra playing behind him.

9:36 p.m. Common and Taraji P. Henson honor the deceased Gil Scott-Heron and present the Grammy for Best R&B Album to Chris Brown.

9:38 p.m. The Civil Wars come out and say “We would like to thank all of our opening acts.” Jokes!

Taylor Swift plays the banjo while performing "Mean"

9:40 p.m. Taylor Swift embraces her country side while performing “Mean.” She plays a banjo and dresses like she is in “Little House on the Prairie.”

9:50 p.m. Neil Patrick Harris presents the Grammy for Best Song of the Year to Adele Adkins and Paul Epworth for “Rolling in Deep.” That was definitely one award most will agree on.

9:52 p.m. Katy Perry performs “E.T.” and dresses like a superhero for “Part of Me.”

9:57 p.m. Best Country Album is awarded to Lady Antebellum for “Own the Night.”

10:05 p.m. Adele begins her much anticipated performance singing “Rolling in the Deep.” So effortless and beautiful. We are all glad her voice is back. The show allows time for the standing ovation to go uninterrupted.

10:16 p.m. Taylor Swift announces the Glen Campbell tribute with The Band Perry and Blake Shelton.

10:21 p.m. Glen Campbell takes the stage singing “Rhinestone Cowboy.”

10:24 p.m. Glen Campbell is one of this year’s Lifetime Achievement Award recipients. Other recipients include: Allman Brothers Band, Antonio Carlos Jobim, The Memphis Horns, George Jones and Diana Ross.

10:30 p.m. Carrie Underwood asks Tony Bennett to join her on stage to sing the duet “It Had To Be You.”

10:33 p.m.  The Grammy for Best New Artist goes to Bon Iver. He is so tall! The mic is definitely too low for him.

10:38 p.m. In Memorium video tribute honors those lost this past year including: Amy Winehouse, Nick Ashford, Steve Jobs, Heavy D, Johnny Otis, Marv Tarplin, Whitney Houston and many more.

Jennifer Hudson sings "I Will Always Love You" without crying

10:42 p.m. Jennifer Hudson sings “I Will Always Love You” in tribute to Whitney Houston. Such a sentimental performance. She ends with “Whitney, we love you.”

10:50 p.m.  Salute to today’s dance music takes place outside the Staples Center at L.A. Live with Chris Brown, Lil Wayne, David Guetta, Deadmau5 and Foo Fighters.

11:04 p.m. Drake introduces Nicki Minaj and calls her “intelligent, beautiful and driven.” Nicki titles her performance “The Exorcism of the Roman” and begins with a video parody of “The Exorcist.” She truly puts on a show while singing her song “Roman Holiday.”

11:10 p.m. Lady Antebellum presents the Grammy for Record of the Year to Adele for “Rolling in the Deep.” No surprise there!

11:18 p.m. Diana Ross joins LL Cool J to announce Album of the Year. The Grammy goes to Adele for “21.” She cries as she gives her thank you speech. Said the album was inspired by a “rubbish relationship.” Adele really cleaned up tonight but her wins were certainly well deserved.

11:23 p.m. Paul McCartney closes out the show with “Carry that Weight” and “The Love We Make.”

Blast intern Morgan Lawrence followed the Foo Fighters from Washington, to New York, to Newark and back home to Boston. This is part four of her four-part series.

I sat on the bus from Newark to Boston, writing in my journal for the entirety of the ride even as I admired the fall scenery that passed. I listened to “Word Forward”, a bonus track from the Foos’ Greatest Hits album, for a solid 4 hours of that trip. With its lyrics of “Years that I’ve wasted/These IOU’s/They’re just fuckin’ words”, that song had been one of many that had motivated to take the leap that was this tour and dive in for all I was worth. On this occasion it felt more like I was clinging onto something, or was hoping for reassurance. Even as I headed off into another city, preparing for another show, I couldn’t escape the feeling that I was leaving something behind that I wasn’t quite ready to.

Fittingly, I suppose, the experience of the Boston show was different in nearly every way. First of all, I had actually slept in my own bed – something that felt foreign even after a relatively short time. Second, I was already familiar with every way to get where I needed to go, and where to get coffee before setting out on our journey in the early hours of the morning. Third, I didn’t have to find someone with a car so that I could store my bag. That in itself was a whole new relief to which I was unaccustomed on this tour.

Despite the shared anxiety between my line buddy and myself about maybe, just maybe, not being first in line (we’d overslept past my ridiculously early alarm by about 45 minutes), we unquestionably were. To a frustrating extent, in fact: we found ourselves making laps around the outside of the TD Garden, and even through North Station itself, trying to make sure we were lined up in the proper place. Soon a construction crew there to repair the West entrance came up to meet us, engaging in some snarky back-and-forth before agreeing to ask security if we were in the right place. Thankfully, we were, and two other people soon came to join the short stub of a line that had begun to form.

Within about two hours – essentially nothing, for those familiar with my line sagas thus far – we were met by event staff who told us, essentially, to go home. They handed out numbered wristbands, told us to be back by 5 pm, and sent us on our way.

It was 9 am. My friend and I looked at each other in bewilderment – we’d written off the entire day, ready for the long haul. What were we supposed to do now?

As it turned out…not much of anything. It’s actually funny how it works out: you spend your entire day in line, with no idea what’s going to happen (Will they open four doors instead of one? Will people cut? Were you at the wrong entrance the entire time?) and you get nervous. Apparently, though, when you’re not going through the usual motions, sitting in your designated spot for hours on end because you’re guaranteed your spot when you return to line, that doesn’t help at all. Hell, in our case, it just made us even more nervous. We resigned ourselves to drinking copious amounts of coffee in a nearby café and wandering the North End of Boston a bit, all without straying too far from the TD Garden. We kept this resolution despite the rain and the cold, both of which increased in intensity through the day, just in case.

It did have some payoffs. We ran into a few familiar techs, even some that I’d had no idea would remember me from my tour so far. It was an interesting feeling, being recognizable as a fan rather than just a face in the crowd. Being on the other side of it, though, I understood. For every new city I traveled to not knowing exactly what to expect, and all of the thousands of anonymous people I encountered once I got there, it was really nice to see one or two familiar faces. I really enjoyed the conversation that my friend and I had with one tech in particular that evening, hiding from the rain near the venue’s back entrance. This was going to make ending tour all the more difficult, I realized: no longer seeing these people, with whom I could relate about something as amazing as the Foo Fighters, every other day (or, sometimes, every day). Everything was about to go back to normal, technically speaking, but after everything that had happened, that reality felt….different.

This theme continued throughout the entire show. Well, that is, after we’d stood in line in the cold and driving rain for about an hour, only to have to frantically explain that we were first in line and should therefore be let in before people with #50 wristbands. That was par for the course. As was, wonderfully, my right side corner spot on the barricade. Fitting, I thought, that it should end where it all began – in more ways than one.

Actually, this is something I should probably address. This show, for lack of a better phrase, felt so very different because it was all so familiar. I stood in the same place, staring at the same lights, listening to the same pre-show mix – all things that had been there through all of my travels. For everything new that I had experienced thus far, once I passed through the arena doors and made that final stretch to the barricade, it was as if I hadn’t left the previous show, the previous city, in the first place. Of course it goes without saying that every show was a totally unique and wonderful experience. I cannot stress that enough; none of it felt run-of-the-mill in the least. It had, though, come to feel familiar.

It was strange, then, watching The Joy Formidable perform with an air of finality. Being an opening band, I was accustomed to their set feeling like just the beginning of everything – starting the process of growing anticipation – the communal kind of excitement that builds to bursting before the main act walks onstage. While they took very little time away from their set to commemorate the end of the tour, that reality was still very present through it all. They took it in stride, though, and for that I give them a lot of credit. They performed with even more enthusiasm than I could remember. “Whirring” aside, drummer Matt Thomas’ intro into “Cradle” was always enough to give me pause. I may have a bit of a drummer bias, but he truly stole the show during this number – his quick, loud, and slightly syncopated rhythm taking the spotlight before the rest of the band joined in. It’s always a great feeling when a musician, or a band as a whole, is able to arrest the attention of the audience based on show of skill alone, and this was definitely one of those moments. Still, within a short time, it seemed, they walked offstage as quickly and purposefully as ever when it all came to a distortion-and-feedback-filled close.

And then, of course, was Social Distortion. As usual, guitarist/vocalist Mike Ness poked fun at the band’s longevity from the get-go, greeting the crowd with “This definitely isn’t our first time in the Boston area.” There’s a reason they’ve lasted so long: every night I’d seen them so far on tour they’d delivered a seamless performance, and this was no exception. They sailed through the set list they’d apparently settled on in Newark, Ness and guitarist Johnny “2 Bags” Wickersham trading places sidling toward the edges of the stage, leaning over as if suddenly weighed down by the guitars on their shoulders as they traded solos. Mike Ness maintained his unique rapport with the audience, all swagger and swears, as he recounted the roots of one of rock’s most famous covers: their rendition of “Ring of Fire”. “I remember in 1989 I decided that Social Distortion was gonna record a Johnny Cash song,” he began. He paused briefly, throwing out his wrist and the microphone with it, as if unable to keep still. “I remember some people were like ‘Whaaaat?’, and I said ‘That’s right, motherfucker, I’m gonna record a Johnny Cash song!’.” He tilted his head at the microphone, the smirk undoubtedly on his face evident, even, in his voice. “‘Why are you gonna do that?’ ‘Because I fuckin’ want to!’”. I doubt a single soul in the audience questioned that this was exactly how any conversation of the kind had gone.

And then it was the main attraction, the end-all-and-be-all, the crowd-hysteria-inducing Foo Fighters. “Bridge Burning” started it all off as it always did, flashing lights and a whirl of noise engulfing the arena as it did. I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again: the first line of this song absolutely captivated me when I first heard the album, and continues to no matter how many times I hear it. Live, of course, it’s another experience entirely, with Dave Grohl’s signature scream sounding from mere feet away. The thing is, though, that when the instruments drop out and it’s just Dave and the microphone, there is something else at work: all of the force that the crowd is feeding back to him. This occasion was no exception. As the lights went up and he rushed the edge of the stage – clutching the mic, his guitar swinging across his chest from the momentum – his voice was but one joining the thousands of others that rose up with it. It was as if all of the pent up energy of the day, of the hours spent inside the arena during set changes wondering idly when the band would come on, had finally found its release valve. I’d always thought that few forces in the world could match the raw power of Dave Grohl when he digs deep and screams a line, but this came pretty damn close.

Of course, as the leading man would soon reassure us in his own special way, there was a lot more to come. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve been on tour all fuckin’ year long, playing these scorching one hour and thirty minute sets,” he teased, unable to continue as the booing of the crowd drowned him out. The Foos’ tradition of marathon sets seemed to be anything but a well-kept secret. The front man continued unaffected, though, drawing out this inside joke for as long as he could. “It’s fuckin’ killing me. BUT,” he said, holding up a hand as if to silence an entire stadium with a wave, “because this show fuckin’ sold out faster than any other show in America, I figure….” he paused dramatically, the cheers of the crowd drowning him out before he managed to deadpan “….we’ll play an hour and forty-five.” And up went the roar again. For the next few minutes he played auctioneer, daring the crowd to ask, via cheers, for more time. Two hours? Two and a half? No, this show was going to be three hours. “Why you gotta make me work so fuckin’ hard?”, he huffed.

He kind of had a point – but the clear joy on the faces of Grohl and his bandmates throughout the, as promised, 3-hour set that followed made it look like the easiest thing in the world. Let me put it this way: I hope that one day I can throw myself into my work with the same kind of energy, enthusiasm, and happiness that this band exhibited night after night, including this one. At any given moment Grohl was back to his normal antics of sprinting across the stage, dancing side to side at the microphone, or jogging down the runway that ran the length of the floor. Drummer Taylor Hawkins was never still for more than a few seconds, proving there was more than a little truth behind the running joke that drummer’s “0% body fat” was, as Hawkins himself put it, “because you [Dave] make me play for 3 hours!”. The Grohl-Shiflett solo-off was as fiery and impressive as ever, the lead guitarist hamming it up and engaging the crowd on his brief stops around the stage. As someone who had been battling a creeping exhaustion for the past few days, my own participation involving a mere fraction of the energy they were putting into their shows, I was definitely impressed. Sure, maybe they hadn’t gotten up at 5 am for days running, but they’d gone on every night to play a hell of a show. You can’t command an entire arena without putting something out there, and these guys went above and beyond.

Sheer quality aside, there were a few things that made this performance just a little different from the others. During band introductions, Dave enthusiastically noted that keyboard player Rami Jaffee finally got his first sign of the tour, held up by a fan to my right. He rushed over and grabbed it, giving it to Jaffee, who feigned being moved despite the grin on his face. In terms of the set list, as the front man had mentioned in Newark (which I had secretly hoped would turn out not to be true), the previous night’s show had been the last stop for Bob Mould. “Dear Rosemary” still held its spot, however, which gave me the unforeseen opportunity to hear the song sans Mould for the first time. I’ll first mention that I adore that song, and hearing it live is wonderful and emotional and all of that stuff. But I will say that hearing both versions (and knowing what it sounds like on the record) made me realize what a fantastic choice it was to have Mould on that track. He adds something to it that’s difficult to explain, or that perhaps doesn’t have a technical term attached to its meaning at all. At the expense of repeating myself, this version wasn’t better or worse than any other. It was just, somehow, different.

Of course, though, there are some things that never change. Perhaps that’s what was most remarkable about this show after all: you put these guys on a stage and they’re going to play a set list, jam to their hearts’ content, and make fun of each other in front of thousands of people. That’s their show, and, last show or not, that’s exactly what happened. Grohl explained, for instance, that Nate Mendel couldn’t show prove how much of a “badass” he was that night because “bass solos were outlawed, like, 10 years ago”. About the aforementioned Rami sign, he once again chided the fan who held it, saying “It’s nice to see you put so much fuckin’ effort into it, too. Obviously, Rami, you’re very appreciated here.” He followed this with “Can I keep this?….Thanks,” tossing the piece of poster board carelessly over his shoulder before he picked it up and gave it to his rightful owner. Hawkins whittled down his usually wordy introduction of the leading man, keeping his heart in it nonetheless, calling Grohl “the greatest musician of our time, and the greatest friend of my time.” The front man replied “I love you too….but I really hate the attention…being a rock star totally sucks. I want to go back to making pizza at Shaky’s, like I used to.” He effortlessly and inexplicably went on to describe how criminal it was for Shaky’s to cook fried chicken and pizza in one place (“it’s, like, a kosher rule,”) before launching the band into Hawkin’s lead-vocals track “Cold Day in the Sun”. All of this within about fifteen seconds, and before we in the audience really knew what was going on. That was kind of their style, after all.

I guess it makes sense, then, that this show seemed to pass in a whirlwind. Of course there were several moments that stick out to me – personal ones, sure, and utterly unique. During the band’s cover of Pink Floyd’s “In The Flesh?”, for example – a song I’d spent a portion of my idle time that day learning – Hawkins always takes the lead vocals when the guitars drop out, and Grohl scans the audience for someone singing along and points them out. On this occasion, as Hawkins (and those of us in the crowd who knew it) sang the lyrics “If you want to find out what’s behind these cold eyes/you’ll have to claw your way through this disguise,” that person was me. Grohl walked purposely toward me, mouth open in a half-grin, half silent yell as he charged away at his guitar once more. And finally, at the end of the show, when “Everlong” had ended and the feedback of Grohl’s guitar and the screams of the audience filled the stadium to bursting, Pat Smear walked to the edge of the stage and mouthed “Australia?!”. I shook my head (regrettably), thought for a second, and shouted back “But maybe Japan?” “Japan,” he mouthed back, and laughed.

And then…it was all over. The show, my tour, everything. My friend and I hung back by the stage but were soon shooed out by security, before we could even say goodbye to the techs we’d grown to know. When we headed out into the rain and, finally, into the crowded underground T stop, I held a used Taylor Hawkins drum stick in my hand and was kind of wondering what had just happened – or, rather, what was going to happen next.

It’s hard to explain how time stretches out when you’re traveling, or when you’re living every day with a purpose. It felt like those past few days – just shy of a week – had lasted a month at least, and I knew that going back to “normal life” was going to be an incredible adjustment. Post-concert depression was surely on the horizon, as was all of the work I had to catch up on from my days spent off-campus. I was now almost thoroughly broke, and without something to look forward to months, weeks, days ahead as I had since I’d planned this journey. Yeah, it was going to be rough.

But now, with the privilege of a little time distancing me from that first night back in my dorm with “real life” just hours away, I can say that gratitude and happiness definitely override all of those things. I can turn on my computer and see a picture of the crowd at Madison Square Garden and myself in the front row, cheering and smiling under the stage lights. I can open my desk drawer and see my “general admission” bracelet from that show or any of three others. If I’m so inclined, I can open my Ticket Stub Diary and see the guitar picks that once belonged to Pat Smear, Dave Grohl, and Johnny “2 Bags” Wickersham. Perched next to my desk lamp, just below the rows of photos tacked to my wall, are Taylor Hawkins’ drum sticks. I’ve kept up with the friends I made at every stop. And most importantly, I walked away from it all with the hope that I can do this all again.

And at some point – even if it’s not this March, and even if I’m not sure when – I know that I will.

Blast intern Morgan Lawrence is following the Foo Fighters from Washington, to New York, to Newark and back home to Boston. This is part three of her four-part series.

NEWARK, N.J. — After a three-block walk, a train ride, and then another 15-minute trek through Brooklyn, it seemed that Jersey was all too rapidly approaching. All told, I got about 3 hours of sleep, waking up to throw my hair into a messy ponytail and don my coat to ward off the exhaustion chills. My friend, a New York resident, proved a kind and able guide through the New York subway system (as well as, I should add, the owner of the world’s most comfortable cot). She was kind enough to make sure that despite the efforts of my heavy eyelids I did not fall asleep on the subway – and, even if I did, that I wouldn’t miss my stop.

Despite the fact that my eyes fought to close without my permission and I felt slightly delirious, I will say this: the Starbucks at 42nd and 8th makes a mean pumpkin spice latte – a venti with soy and an extra shot, to be precise. I don’t know how they do it, but by the time I finished it off (in record time) I felt positively human again, actually ready to face a day of hardcore waiting and 3 hours of rocking out.

What I wasn’t ready for, though, was Newark. To be honest, the thought of showing up to a venue first was, for the first time, totally unappealing to me – mostly the fact that I’d be sitting outside a building in Newark I’d never been to before, alone. Thus, I hedged, sitting in the ‘bucks for far longer than I ever would have on the morning of a concert otherwise. Frankly I couldn’t be sure that the Canadian girls I’d met at Madison Square Garden, who would be continuing on the Northeast route as well, would be there at 9 am as they’d promised, and I couldn’t see the line in Newark competing with that of New York. I decided to head out with enough time to catch, at the latest, a 10 am light rail to Newark Penn Station.

It was a gorgeous day when I stepped off the train and started the brief walk to the venue. Gratefully it stayed that way, allowing us to sun like cats on the makeshift barricades that kept us clustered around the arena entrance for the day. The tour-traditional searches for food and bathrooms were short-lived, though, as we realized that Newark isn’t exactly somewhere you go for a healthy walk or to “explore”. The McDonald’s we found two blocks away proved to be an adventure enough – we didn’t go back. Our attempts to see the band as they went in for soundcheck proved similarly fruitless, although we did successfully chat with some very friendly crew, who recognized us from the nights before.

As time wore on, though, things got…weird. I suppose in concert lines this is bound to happen, but this was just strange. First of all, we in the front had been given a pretty wide berth, more of a semi-circle (a pen, if you will) of barricade in which to stay. Rather than protectively sitting in a single-file formation, the first twenty-five or so were milling around, out of order. This seemed to both confuse people into thinking that there was no “line” (causing them to try to hop the barricade and join us) and allow people to pretend they didn’t know it was a line. I ended up being the only one willing to tell those people that the end of the line was that way, thank you very much. Tensions were bubbling up and the formerly pleasant and casual atmosphere was starting to feel kind of threatening – there is nothing to dread so much in line for a show as disorganization, because someone is going to get burned.

And that’s probably why my sharpie hand-numbering system got so out of control. It was never intended to be law. It was to discourage people from cutting or letting 12 friends join them in line (at least without the permission of the people behind them). In light of the news we received that we’d be entering through 4 different doors instead of the standard 1, the two guys who had shown up early that morning took charge, trying to pre-coordinate, ordering that everyone line up according to their number. I wound up second to go through the 3rd door. This technically put me behind two other guys who had claimed to want right corner. I realized I’d be lucky if I’d get second or third off the barricade, let alone my corner spot. I was the most stressed out I’d been all tour so far, sitting there and realizing that my spot – or the loss thereof – was no one’s fault but my own, and I was going to have to deal. And then, suddenly, the doors opened, and all thoughts disappeared.

I rushed forward whenever I got a break, through the ticket checkers and the wristband station (painfully slow!), until I was in the clear, finally realizing that despite their calls of “Don’t run!” they couldn’t do a damn thing to stop me. I jogged for it – only to be passed by my barricade neighbor from the past two shows. Damn it. I leaned halfway over the barricade when I finally reached it, half-relieved and half wired on adrenaline. I tried breathlessly to yell at him: “You’d outrun me? You’d outrun your friend?”. Still, at least I was in the same spot I’d been in the night before, and that was much more than I’d been able to hope for only a few short minutes ago.

The Joy Formidable was back to their full five-song set, making sure to comment that this was their second to last show and how sorry thy were to see the tour end. I do think singer Ritzy Byan, and perhaps the band in general, was more than a bit taken aback by how empty the stands were as they began their set. The former mentioned how huge the building was and, at one point, noted how quiet it became as she sang a verse with all the instruments muted. She was right – it was the quietest an arena had been all tour. While I didn’t notice any anger or bitterness in her tone, or any change in their performance as a whole, when she talked about “Whirring” — the final song that always features a 5-minute digression – she seemed to almost smirk when she said “We’re going to keep this short and sweet”. Whatever the case, as they left the stage, they left behind them once again the impression that they are a very solid band for whom this is quite probably just the beginning, not the end.

Next up, of course, was Social Distortion. Mike Ness seemed to add even more swagger to his already super-tough persona during this time around. He traded in his traditional sprays of spit at the microphone in favor of full-on loogies to the stage and bantered sarcastically with the audience all the while. “This is a happy song,” he said at one point, “It’s called ‘Machine Gun Blues’”. Later he claimed to notice a lot of crazy people in the audience, adding, “All of New Jersey is crazy”. His “crazy”, though, was dragged out with a kind of Fonz-like cool that made it evident that, coming from Mike Ness, that was a compliment. When the applause wasn’t immediate, he repeated, “Come on, motherfuckers, I said ‘all of New Jersey is crazy,’” – proving that, if nothing else, when Mike Ness gives you a compliment, you take it. This wasn’t quite the best part of their set, however. It wasn’t even when guitarist Johnny “2 Bags” Wickersham, after two shows with not so much as a glance anywhere but outward, finally raised his head and looked at us in the front row, sending picks and smiles our way during “Story of My Life”. No, it was when, toward the end of the set, a slow and familiar riff emitted from Mike’s guitar. I once again told myself it was not their ballad “Ball and Chain” (a much-lamented fact by everyone I spoke to) but something familiar-sounding that they had been playing all along. … Except it was “Ball and Chain”. I gleefully sang along and marveled at how this one song seemed to change the whole tone and pace of their set. I was almost surprised when Mike said “You know what I want to do right now? I want to sing a Johnny Cash song,” meaning their set-closing number was about to begin. Without a doubt Social D had bested themselves, and it was fun as hell to watch.

And then, of course, it was time for the Foo Fighters. I was anxiously bouncing on the balls of my feet as the band walked onstage, still partially hidden behind the huge otherworldly light fixtures. Three shows in and this hadn’t gotten old in the least- if anything, it had gotten better.

And it was about to get better still. The energy that the other performers had shown so far was only emphasized by the main attraction, and they weren’t leaving any doubt about that. “Call your boss and tell him you have irritable bowel syndrome or something,” Dave commanded, “it’s gonna be a long fuckin’ night!”. His banter with the audience, and with his band mates, continued at a remarkably high level. Some guys I’d met in line who had been determined to be noticed for their signs for Nate – “Nate is a Wizard!” “OH GOD NATE” – were in fact noticed, with Dave chiding them for their Sharpie-and-posterboard handiwork: “I can see how much work you put into it”. He shared an anecdote about Pat Smear coming to him earlier that day, hung over, and what his advice for the guitarist had been: “Champagne, motherfucker!”. Smear brandished his glass appropriately before dissolving into a fit of laughter. “How you feeling now?” Dave asked, to which Pat could only manage to respond “You’re cracking me up tonight!” At this Dave smiled and noted that if he was making Pat Smear laugh he knew he was at least doing alright.

This continued during, what else, band introductions. When an absolute wall of noise arose from the crowd in honor of Taylor Hawkins, causing him to, childlike, hide his head in his stick-thin arms in embarrassment, Dave teased him that he had quite the little fan club going in Newark. He mentioned that if he made his fan club shirtless, he’d be a “fuckin’ millionaire.” Immediately Taylor shot back “I already am a millionaire,” pausing before quickly adding “…thanks to this guy right here, Dave Grohl!” cueing the loud applause for the band’s founder, lead singer, guitarist, etc. After it finally died down, Dave took to the mic and jokingly shook his head as if disapproving. “I really hate the attention,” he said, “it bums me out.”

During “Monkey Wrench”, introducing the lights-out digression that the band always inserted just before Dave screamed his signature lines, the front man shared an anecdote about going to see Prince in concert, who had done the same thing. Apparently Prince had reasoned that the audience seemed too self-conscious, looking at one another too much. Instead of all that, Dave said, we should just sit back and listen. Despite the fact that I’d been through this two times before, I made an effort to do just that. I stopped looking at individual band members, or even the faces of the crowd around me, and simply looked up: at the light fixtures, at the waving cell phone lights and tiny flames that stood out like stars amongst the darkened stands. I closed my eyes, even, simply appreciating the wave of sound that washed over me from the speakers. Yeah, I thought, maybe Dave and Prince were on to something.

The show closed with an encore, of course, but not before Dave and Taylor goaded the audience into asking for more songs – via night vision camera footage, projected onto the screens that hovered above the stage. After working their way up from “one more song” to seven, Dave pretending all the while that he simply couldn’t play that many, the front man triumphantly emerged from backstage, acoustic guitar in hand. Smiling, he marched out to the platform at the end of the arena once again.

Despite the band’s adherence to their, admittedly powerful, same set list for the majority of the tour, Newark was an occasion on which we got something a little different, and something definitely remarkable. New York had Joan Jett, but Newark had the reintroduction of Bob Mould – not just on “Dear Rosemary” but, for the first time in my experience, “I Should Have Known,” the heavy and emotional track off the new record that at least partially references the death of Kurt Cobain. It truly speaks to the power of the performers that after a high-octane set that encourages jumping, headbanging, moshing, and, of course, screaming, a sense of gravity could immediately descend upon the arena at the drop of a hat. As if a switch had been flipped, thousands of people quieted down and were fittingly mesmerized by the presence before them. The flashing lights and dancing screens were gone; they were replaced only by solid, stationary beams in various hues of blue and green, falling over Dave Grohl and Co. as they stood (for once) in place until song’s end.

And then, of course, was “Everlong.” It was here that Dave addressed something that I’d been wondering about since my first show: their ever-expanding catalogue and an already jam-packed set. “We’ll go home, like we always do, and make another record,” he said. “And then we’ll come back. And when we do, we’ll try as hard as we fuckin’ can to play for four fuckin’ hours.” He paused, and then added, with almost startling solemnity and sincerity, “Because anything less would be not enough.”

It was at this show, and at the end of this encore, that I became convinced that I was flattering myself to think that anyone cared whether or not I was going to the next show. As such, I decided not to hold up the “See you in Boston!” sign that I’d fashioned for this occasion. So it was to my absolute surprise that Pat Smear met my eyes after the encore and mouthed “Boston?!” I grinned back full force and yelled “YES!” — as if I would miss it for the world.

Taylor Swift, winner of Artist of the Year, Favorite Country Album and Favorite Country Female Artist Awards, poses in the press room at the 2011 American Music Awards held at Nokia Theatre L.A. LIVE on November 20 (Jason Merritt/Getty Images via WireImage)

Pop or Rock

Favorite Male Artist:

• Winner: Bruno Mars
• Nominees: Justin Bieber, Pitbull

Blast intern Morgan Lawrence is following the Foo Fighters from Washington, to New York, to Newark and back home to Boston. This is part two of her four-part series.

NEW YORK — The city that never sleeps, except between the hours of 1 and 5 a.m. You learn that pretty quickly when you frequent the 1 am Peter Pan/Greyhound bus from Boston to the Port Authority. Despite the fact that the schedule dictates that the bus should arrive around 5:30, the complete lack of traffic in the wee hours (especially on weekdays) means that the 4.5-hour bus ride actually gets in anywhere between 3.5 and 4 hours after departure. Let me emphasize again: nothing is open during these hours, except the Tick Tock Diner on 34th and 8th. So basically if you’re not up for a big stack of pancakes and a 10-block walk that early in the morning to get them, you’re royally fucked, and will be spending a lot of quality time with the dirty bus terminal floor.

Knowing this, I nonetheless chose that bus to get me into the city for my second Foo Fighters show. My original plan was to get to the venue (every venue, in fact – yeah, I was kind of optimistic and unrealistic when I made these plans) by 6 am. I soon realized, though, that sitting outside a venue in New York City, potentially alone, in the dark, was not the best course of action. And so it was that I found myself standing outside a Starbucks on 42nd street at 5:29 a.m., waiting for 5:30 or whenever the employees felt it was appropriate to open the door. As I waited, I was passed by a friendly and well-meaning man who quite clearly thought I was some form of homeless (something that I should really be accustomed to at this point with the traveling hours I keep).

Anyway, I killed time drinking coffee (my sleep schedule being completely through the wringer, as I’d slept from 8:30 in the morning until 5 p.m. as soon as I’d gotten back to Boston from DC), writing up this bullshit, and waiting for the sun to rise before I trekked over to MSG around 7. Gratefully, although somewhat to my surprise, I found my barricade neighbor from the night before and two other people I didn’t recognize already there and waiting. Not bad at all.

The morning wait passed slowly, as they always do, as we tried to re-acclimate to the loss of feeling in our extremities and derrieres due to cold air and sidewalk. Just as we were getting settled in (read: found stuff to sit on and were honestly looking really homeless), Madison Square Garden staff approached us and told us to move to a space along the side of the building, away from the sidewalk foot traffic. It just so happens that it was in this spot we’d seen at least two homeless people sleeping not an hour earlier. As if to accentuate this point, the smell of urine was there to greet us as we got back in our line formation and were placed behind waist-high barricades that kept us along the wall. We overheard staff ask via walkie-talkie for a custodian, presumably to clean up whatever spot under our feet smelled like piss – but when said employee arrived, he inexplicably swept and mopped only the front doors of the venue and walked off. After 20 minutes of watching the mop sit there unused, frustration that none of us (set to be there for hours more) could sit down took over me. I asked security – still standing there, seemingly unconcerned about the whole lack-of-cleaning thing – if I could use the mop myself. They responded with an irritating amount of enthusiasm at the prospect, standing by and watching as I tried to bleach the smell away. I can’t make this up: one of them even went so far as to critique my mopping technique as he stood by. But I digress: at least that day, with all of our concerns, we didn’t have to worry about smelling like piss.

The day was slow, but I had good company in a group of women who had come from their home city of Quebec to, with the exception of the show in DC, do exactly as I was doing. Their second-language English prevented us from talking as much as I would have liked, as we indulged in New York’s thankfully ample selection of $1 slices of pizza, but they were still very friendly and inclusive. Best of all, they told me that they all wanted to be on the left side of the stage, meaning I was second in line who wanted the right. If not the corner, at least one spot to the right of it was mine.

I say that with conviction, but I hardly felt so certain. Soon the final hour and a half of the wait – as you’ll recall, the absolute worst period of the line time – was upon us and I was totally unconvinced I’d get my spot after all. All day, courtesy of those who had been in Madison Square Garden pits before, I’d been fed horror stories of slow ticket scanners, innumerable escalator rides before being let in, and general chaos. I knew how easy it was for venue management, always just a little clueless, to mess everything up in a second.

And they kind of made good on that, too. First we were led in (twenty of us) and kept in line at the bottom of a flight of stairs. Then we were herded to a table where our tickets were checked and marked and we were given wristbands. Then we were lined up again, single-file (they yelled at us several times) before they finally let us through….up two escalators and through a hallway, which led finally to the main door. “Don’t run!”, staff screamed at us, as per usual, intimidating us into an awkward half-brisk-walk, half-jog to the barricade. As usual again (weirdly) there weren’t as many people interested in the right side of the stage as the left, so I was one off from the corner. Perfect.

Dave Grohl of the Foo Fighters arrives to "Late Show With David Letterman" at the Ed Sullivan Theater on November 15 in New York. (Jeffrey Ufberg/WireImage)

It all started off with the news that The Joy Formidable’s set would be shortened. This after we’d heard that the Foos had already pushed back the door-opening time to start everything earlier, all presumably to make the midnight NYC noise curfew. The group made the most of it, packing their half hour with music, including what seemed like a lengthened version of their distortion-filled, gong-pounding, guitar-throwing ending to “Whirring”. I have to say, though, that despite what I’m sure must have been disappointment about their set being cut, they seemed to be having even more fun, and showcasing more energy, than they had in DC just days before. So when “Whirring” came along, it was no-holds-barred. Bassist Rhydian Dafydd lurched forward and threw his hands back in exaggerated strokes with every note, yelling lyrics or just simply yelling off-lyric. Singer-guitarist Ritzy Bryan stomped her way across the stage and, while kneeling to adjust the effects pedals to produce as much of a swirling sonic mass as possible, headbanged on all fours, almost doing push-ups with the effort. The drummer who is not Russell Brand (but is Matt Thomas) threw his sticks against the cymbals before him, launching them toward his band mates like arsenal. I have to agree with Dave Grohl on this one: they have the musical chops to back it up, and it all came off as very rock n’ roll.

Speaking of rock n’ roll, next up was Social Distortion. Their set was not shortened, but was switched up a touch – they rotated in a seething older number that really brought up the mood and energy in the pit. As it should have – it would have brought down the house in one of their smaller gigs, where people actually know how to mosh for fun. Anyway, it seemed that despite singer/guitarist Mike Ness’s anecdote that in his previous New York experience he was beat up on H Street, “Social D” as a whole was all the more energized and confident, too. Ness strutted around the stage all the more, planting his feet and straightening himself up as he played as if readying himself for a fight – a fight that, given the signature half-sneer of an expression on his face, he was confident he would win. With his suspenders, old school tattoos, slicked back hair, and almost Elvis-like leg-shaking in time with the music, he was the picture of classic rock n’ roll. Not “classic rock”, of course, but what the genre meant at its origin and was always supposed to mean. Social Distortion represents that with pride, and they do it well.

And then, of course, was the almighty Foo. No matter how many times those extraterrestrial-esque fixtures descended onto the stage, shooting beams of light out into the stadium, I don’t think they could ever fail to give me butterflies. Without a sound, without doing much of anything, they gave the clear impression that something really important was about to happen. And the really cool part about being in the audience, let alone the front row, is that you know it will be. Even for those last few seconds where the band is still hidden, their only sign being the razor-sharp riff that starts everything, – the song “Bridge Burning”, the album, the show, the racing pulses of the audience – you can’t fucking wait. It’s almost a simultaneous thrill and relief when suddenly the stage is clear, lights are flashing, Taylor’s drums are roaring through the speakers, and then: “These are my famous last words!”

What can be said about this show? Every song, even if it was the same as the night before, seemed tinted with the reverence of where we were – a place that management itself boldly proclaims (on all signing and merchandise) is “The World’s Most Famous Arena”. Taylor put this into words at long last during band introductions, quietly expressing his disbelief that the Foos had landed there: “I can’t believe we’re playing Madison Square Garden,” he said. “…all the adolescent dreams we had about playing this kind of show…it still seems unbelievable.”

Of course, no rock band can truly be classified as “reverent” – especially not when playing in front of thousands of screaming fans. During the switch-off solo portion of one of several “jams” built into the songs, this one being “Stacked Actors”, rhythm guitarist Pat Smear betrayed his usually positive disposition by lifting his guitar off his shoulders and smashing it neck-first on the amp in front of him. When a CD launched by a member of the crowd hit lead singer Dave Grohl in the leg during his between-song banter, Dave saw no reason to be anything but blunt. “Here’s an idea”, he said, tension running as a fierce undercurrent, “if you want me to listen to your fucking band, don’t through your CD in my face!”. He punctuated this with a raised middle finger and by picking up the CD and throwing it back in the general direction of the undoubtedly embarrassed audience member. Finally, he issued his usual command to parents, telling them to buy their children actual instruments instead of Guitar Hero, before launching into “Monkey Wrench”.

Nevertheless, things got kind of somber and significant again during the acoustic set – it’s hard not to take a step back and say “wow” when a full Madison Square Garden is singing the chorus of “Wheels” back at you as loud as they can. The soaring “Oooh” bridge on “Best of You” just about overtook Dave’s efforts on his acoustic guitar, as impassioned as they were as he stood, in a halo of light, on the raised platform at the end of the arena. I like to think that this is because everyone else, like me, took it upon themselves to belt it out with all that they had in them, sending all of the emotion that the song demands, with the lyrics, out into the air. But maybe not.

Then, of course, there was the actual encore – with the full band and the feeling that you don’t really know for sure what’s coming next. Bob Mould made another guest appearance, playing on a “Dear Rosemary” that has to be my favorite version to date. Something about the energy of that show, the passion of that song, and the fact that Bob Mould was there singing one of my favorite sections of Foo music of all time – “This was no ordinary life” – had me standing on my tip-toes, fist in the air, and the biggest grin I could possibly have on my face without my jaw giving in. And, as if on cue, Pat met my eye and gave me a huge smile back. Awesome.

That’s another thing about the Foo Fighters: the band’s effort to interact with fans is something that is within itself worthy of admiration. As far as I was concerned, even in DC – when I wasn’t yet making a habit of showing up on the barricade night after night – I got more than I’d hoped for. After indulging in my normal concert shenanigans, headbanging and singing and clapping and jumping (I was really, really excited to see these guys live, okay?), Pat looked at me, pointed, and said “You rock!”, topping it all off by bending down to give me his pick. You know you’re at a good show when a band can make you feel like you’re the only person in the room, not just one of tens of thousands. I don’t take that for granted for a second.

This gig wasn’t anywhere near over, though. It was Madison Square Garden, after all, and everyone knows that you don’t play MSG without something up your sleeve (which, when I was living in Ohio, was actually a source of more than a little resentment, but that’s beside the point). The front-row rumor mill had pretty much spoiled this for me; that didn’t make it any less exciting when – as Dave started his introduction of “the most badass motherfucker” ever who, if we wanted to learn about rock ‘n roll, would be “the best teacher” – a roadie with a “Blackheart Records” sweatshirt came on stage to set up. It was official: to quote Dave, it was “JOAN JETT!!!”.

With that, a rock and feminist icon, bestselling artist, and all-around badass casually walked out, hugging the 3 Foo boys on my side of the stage before strapping on her guitar and stepping up to the microphone. Her brief introduction went a little something like this:

Dave: “How do we start?”

Joan: “One, two, three, four?”

Dave: (pointing at drummer Taylor Hawkins) “That’s what he says!”.

Taylor took this as his cue and counted off, launching them into the song. Despite Dave’s earlier quips, which one would assume were hints that they would be playing “I Love Rock n’ Roll”, they charged into a searing version of “Bad Reputation”, Joan on lead vocals and Dave taking the “No no no” backups. Make no mistake, this version was badass rock n’ roll at its finest. It’s been a while since I rocked out so hard and shamelessly on a barricade – but then, the occasion seemed to more than call for it. I don’t regret it one bit. I mean, how could I?

And then, of course, it was “Everlong,” the emotional punch that ends every show. The emotionality and sheer quality of the performance, every time, hardly softens the blow, amazing enough to make you wish more than anything that you didn’t have to go home. Thankfully, I didn’t really have to worry about that: as I dutifully held up my “See You in Jersey!” sign, (which to my surprise got a smile and a “Fuck yes!” from Pat Smear) I tried not to think about the fact that that trip to Jersey was going to happen a lot sooner than my exhausted body would have liked…

The view from very, very close (Morgan Lawrence for Blast Magazine)

Blast intern Morgan Lawrence is following the Foo Fighters from Washington, to New York, to Newark and back home to Boston. This is part one of her four-part series.

WASHINGTON — My journey started with a 6 a.m. flight, which meant I got to the airport sometime around 5 in the morning, rubbing sleep from my eyes. I suppose it’s some kind of karmic balance that when I checked in I had a surprise upgrade waiting for me, meaning I got to skip the somehow tremendously long security line at Boston Logan.

One of my favorite parts of travel is getting surprise upgrades. Not because of the material perks, but because it places me with the middle-aged business men oozing drier starch, aftershave and inflated self-importance. I sit among them, band t-shirt and pink-hair and iPod on, drinking my complimentary coffee and orange juice and stowing the portion-sized Sun Chips in my bag for later. I stick out like a sore thumb – a comically pampered sore thumb.

Gratefully, my paranoia about getting lost between the Metro and the venue was unfounded: the Metro stop literally let out two escalator rides below the venue. I walked out onto the street and spotted a “box office” sign immediately, scanning the sidewalk for the crowd that I was sure would be waiting- it was almost 9 a.m., after all. I kept scanning – no one. Within a moment I met two girls who looked about my age, eying me with the same kind of hope mixed with suspicion that, I’m sure, was in my own gaze as well. As we all three walked slowly toward the arena door and met in the middle, I noticed that one of them had a Foo Fighters shirt on; clearly we’re there for the same reason. And, by the looks of it, we were first.

The line time passed more quickly and pleasantly than any line I’ve been in in recent memory. Every person I met was friendly and talkative, and, most importantly, clearly as dedicated to seeing this band as I was. Only two of the first 20 or so people in line were actually from Washington, DC itself, the rest having come from as far as states away. More interesting still was that while this was my first show on the tour, I was in the minority: most saw this show as the end of their own mini-tours, or had at least been to other shows not long ago in the area. As the evening wore on, they helped us fend off people who “mistook” the front of the line for the back (read: trying to take our hard-earned spots). They were even nice enough to let me put my bag in their hotel room for the day when we found out that, despite the fact that surely I wasn’t the only one relying on a backpack to carry all of my necessary possessions, bags were not permitted into the venue.

I will say this, though — regardless of how mild the line, or how organized the lining up process (which, let’s be honest, is never really organized at all; that is purely a relative and optimistic term), the last hour to ninety minutes are the worst. Or, actually, that is not worthy of a relative term – they’re just bad, really. Anxiety heightens, as does paranoia – the free time you had before, accompanied with the appropriate I-have-all-the-time-in-the-world mentality, suddenly evaporates, and even a walk to a trashcan halfway down the block becomes dangerous because what if something happens while you’re gone? It’s totally illogical. It is essentially considered a feat if anything in the music world starts on time. Early is practically unthinkable. But the worry is there just the same.

I suppose this goes to the optimism of the concert-goer: the thought that someone with connections will realize that you’re cold and tired and near-hypothermic, soaked to the bone in a nun costume made of very thin material (uhm…never mind) and that you just want to be closer to seeing your favorite band. And, knowing that, they will wave their magic wand and let you inside.

Yeah. That never happens.

I think the truth is probably closer to one of my favorite quotes, by Mr. Oscar Wilde: The basis of optimism is sheer terror. After x amount of hours in line (where x > anything socially acceptable, often, and generally ? the length of a normal day’s work shift), a spot in line becomes less something you luck into and more something earned. As someone for whom x is always an amount that, in the end, causes passersby to confuse me with a homeless person taking refuge outside a venue, I understand this feeling all too well. Losing a spot in line through someone else’s greed or rudeness is a massive breach of etiquette on their part, and is not taken lightly, but it can sometimes be repaired with enough force. But losing it to your own folly and bad timing is unforgivable, and irreparable to boot. No one wants to risk that, even with something that isn’t a risk at all. In this case, I saw a man run to a bathroom around the corner from the line an hour before doors were set to open, come back to see that nothing at all had happened, and still take it upon himself to jog to a trash can maybe 10 yards down the street. It was as if he was convinced we would sprint through the doors as soon as he was gone, all (at least) 100 of us, leaving him behind as he threw away his paper coffee cup – sucker!

As I said before, though, very little goes earlier than according to plan in the music world, except maybe a really shitty set from an opening band that they decide to pull early. This was no exception, although I do give credit to the staff for, at least, opening the doors damn near close to right on time. It’s November, after all, which means that as the sun went down all extremities began to lose feeling and an unbreakable impatience began to settle over us all like a frost.

This is why, when doors opened, we all shot into the venue like horses out of the gate. Many of us tried to be compliant with security to speed things up but, nervous, fumbled, and only served to make things more difficult.

This is why we ran down he stairs to the wristband table an tapped our feet nervously as our tickets were checked, willing the employees to go as quickly as possible so that someone with a faster ticket scanner could somehow come up from behind and put our hours of waiting to nothing.

This is why we felt kind of stupid when they stopped us in a smaller anteroom before letting us in, as we watched in semi-terror as a larger and larger line formed behind us and up the stairs. We begged the employee guarding said door to let us in gradually, lest a stampede break out and we frontrunners be trampled, so close yet so far.

This is why we ran again when that door was opened, switching to an extremely “brisk walk” under the direction of security but then running again when the free barricade spaces were in view, just the same.

I consider my right side corner barricade spot to be one of the best vantage points in the house, if not the best. It’s positioned so that you are as close as possible while still having head-turned access to the miniature catwalk that is an outcrop of the main stage itself (which Dave Grohl tends to frequent during a number of songs). The same can be said of the corner on the left side, of course, but I’ve been partial to the right (where center isn’t possible) since my Green Day days began. Right side always meant being closer to the bassist, Mike Dirnt – who, in addition to being extremely talented, is unquestionably in the running for World’s Nicest and Most Charming Man. In the Foos’ case, this means access to one Pat Smear, who, as I knew from personal experience at Lollapalooza in August, is also in competition for that award. Or maybe they both should just win it?

First up on the band roster was The Joy Formidable, a group of guitarist/singer, bassist, and a drummer who looks scarily like Russell Brand. Guitarist Ritzy Bryant, wonderfully enthusiastic in the powerful kind of way usually dominated by testosterone-overloaded male performers, took it upon herself to catch people off-guard by making wide-eyed eye contact mid-lyric. Thankfully, I am not so easily phased – I’m of the opinion that such artist-crowd interaction is essential, and I was more than happy to nod my head and clap and grin right back. I love live music in just about all of its forms, and hell if wanting to see the Foos desperately was going to keep me from enjoying myself in the moment. I mean, come on, I’d spent the last 8 hours on a sidewalk. Live music to me sounded like the best “time kill” ever.

And, really, The Joy Formidable are good. They are. And, while I was already partial to their last song, “Whirring”(I know, I know, being partial to their only single is beyond pathetic. But what can you do?) , the end of it all left me turning to the guy behind me and exclaiming “Now that is how you send a set!” Already a track that blends instruments and pedal effects together in a fierce melody, backdrop to the Bryan’s sharp, otherwise bright vocals, this live performance took that technique and ran with it far and fast. The muted roar became a full-on cacophony. Bryan held her guitar up to the face of the amp, resulting in a healthy amount of feedback, while shredding mercilessly on the neck before giving up completely and throwing it (explaining the healthy amount of duct tape that could be seen on the instrument’s front and sides). From there she seized a mallet and smashed away at a rather large gong, the presence on stage of which was finally explained. When the storm finally passed, she and her bandmates simply walked offstage. The flowery “thank-you-we’re-so-glad-to-be-here”s had already been said, leaving them to depart with expressions fixed on their faces as harsh and unforgiving as their song had proven to be. If nothing else, their set felt overwhelmingly genuine – the spectacle didn’t feel like pandering, but more their answer to the unspoken question of “How the hell do we handle arenas this big?!”.

Next up was Social Distorion, who hold an indelible place in rock history and are cited as an influence of innumerable bands as a result. Based on those facts alone, as a hardcore music geek, I would have been excited to see them. As it stands, though, they hold an important place in the formation of my own music taste, as several of their songs were in healthy rotation on my town’s only Alternative (read: good) station during my formative years of musical exploration … which is why I was so disappointed in the way the audio dropped out during the set. On the right side, we were hit full force with the sounds of rhythm guitar, bass, drums, and some lead guitar during solos, but unless you were literally watching singer/guitarist Mike Ness’ mouth move, you would have no idea he was singing at all. No amount of panache – which Mike Ness has plenty of, by the way – can make up for that kind of oversight, which really was a shame.

Above all, ending the set with ‘Ring of Fire” was a wonderful choice, as nothing gets one’s spirits up like a good crowd sing-along. And this crowd was happy to oblige. This, and the knowledge that this set change was the only thing standing between us and the Foo Fighters, led to an unquestionable lightening of the mood between us all. Even the security/bouncers’ slightly-surly commentary of “Two down, one to go” couldn’t bring us down.

And rightfully so. I don’t know what it was about the huge cube-like light fixtures that descended over the stage right before the band walked on, but it left me with a mounting sense of excitement and anticipation of something big that had me saying, simply, “Oh shit!”. And then all too suddenly we were in the thick of it, with Dave screaming my favorite line: “These are my famous last words!”

I’ve always said “What a way to open an album!” about that line, and about that track (“Bridge Burning”, off “Wasting Light”) in general. Now I can safely say “What a way to open a show!” Dave Grohl seemed to think so, too. Going back to my previous music-nomad experience, Billie Joe Armstrong, when excited, will goad the crowd into Simon-says session of “hey oh!”. Apparently, when Dave Grohl is excited, he does the same – but without the whole “using words” thing. Instead he lets out a signature roar that demands we follow suit, filling the stadium with the kind of raw power and energy that I so love about their music, even on the record. And then….

How does one even begin to describe this show? I’ve heard every song they performed innumerable times, but each one was packed with so much life and power that it was impossible not to freak out like they’d just busted out a rarity from ’95.

More importantly, though, watching the Foo Fighters play live, even the hits they’ve played for every show since the tracks were written, one thing becomes clear: these men love playing their instruments, and they are really fucking good at it. As a drummer, and as a fan of drummers, I’m constantly rooting for the drummer to get the spotlight, to really fucking steal the show. And while Dave Grohl clearly loved to dart around the stage like a kid who’s had one too many Pixie Stix, shredding off a new mini-solo or blues digression or even some interlude that sounds oddly like free-form jazz, he couldn’t overshadow Mr. Taylor Hawkins. And he very clearly had no desire too, either. For every time you thought Dave, as the lead, was taking over a song, Taylor would fire back with something truly mind-boggling on the drums that left even Dave standing by admiringly, grinning like a fool. They would segue off after or even during one off their hits and do something completely different, showing off and just enjoying playing with each other, the 19,000 other people in the room be damned.

Their onstage rapport also deserves a mention. Usually, obviously, it’s Dave, who rotates between the effortless charm of a cool guy who just happens to be a kick-your-ass rock musician and the comportment of a teenager after chugging a few Rock Star energy drinks. Case and point: band introductions. “Don’t ever move to DC, Pat – too many people here love you,” he cautioned, after a particularly loud and prolonged round of applause went up for Mr. Smear. He called Taylor “The man who needs no introduction”, but looked mock-offended when he was cut off by the roar of the crowd. Taylor waved in various directions in response, smiling like a 12-year-old kid who just did particularly well in a piano recital but doesn’t quite know why. He proceeded to introduce Dave as “the man who really needs no introduction”, to which Dave cheekily responded “Then why are you giving me one?”

Dave and Chris Shiflett, lead guitarist, at one point got in a full-on shred-off. Dave stood below us all on a constructed runway and Chris still onstage, walking – no, strolling – to and fro, mock- put off by Dave’s show and firing a mini-solo right back at him at every turn. As much as we were celebrating the music that these men had put out and its effect on all of us, it was clear that we were just as much celebrating these men as musicians – and, even, music itself. This became all too clear when Dave stepped up to the microphone and told the kids in the audience, the next generation of musicians, that if they wanted to start a band to close their computers and go buy a guitar instead. Music, real music, was what this was all about.

It made sense, then, that Dave sauntered back out to the raised platform and played “Wheels” – a song he jokingly referred to as being only popular in Germany. In almost the same breath, though, he demanded that we all yell the chorus with him, bribing us with a promised “4-hour show” at DC’s small venue, the 9:30 Club (apparently a theme of Dave’s on this tour).

He further used his vantage point, speaking to thousands of residents of his hometown, as an opportunity to bemoan the desecration of his “beloved Springfield Mall” (comparing its current state to something out of the apocalyptic film “28 Days Later”) but reasoned that he was glad things had changed since he’d lived there – he had changed, too. He noted wryly, though, that he expected every review of the show to immediately bring up the past, to which he gave an emphatic “Fuck 20 years ago!”.

This portion of the show was a totally unique and very cool concert experience, for a number of reasons. For one, as I said before, I’m a sucker for a good group singalong, especially when the “group” is 18,999 of your closest friends. But, second, the majority of the house lights were on, and this meant that nearly every damn person in the stands was visible. And, because Dave was the center of attention (the rest of the band was off on a beer break), the entire pit was now turned to face the back of the arena. From where I stood, 10 feet from the stage, a huge portion of the stands were visible. It was a fishbowl effect, in a way, or a concert setup in reverse. It was what it must feel like (in a limited way, of course) to stand on that stage and see so very many faces singing back at you. It was awesome.

I could easily bitch about Dave’s penchant for choosing 1 of 4, at least, different locations to stand and sing, in only 1 of which I could actually see his face – but I really can’t. First, it’s like he said, addressing the people in the nosebleeds at the very back of the arena – the “shitty seats” – “They’re not so shitty now, are they?”. I really respect the fact that he spreads his presence around as much as he can, even if those people didn’t wait nearly as long as I did to see him up close .Second, I really do think that this, if unintentionally, reinforced why we were there. We weren’t there to gawk at Dave’s handsome face for 2.5 hours, as wonderful (and warranted) as that would be. No, we were there to enjoy the music and to be a community. And I think this – all of us belting out the chorus to “Best of You” and “Times Like These”, just before the rest of the band triumphantly reemerged to bring it home – accomplished that in a way that nothing else could.

Of course, this wasn’t the real encore – not yet. As I said, the rest of the band rejoined the leading man, taking the main stage. Soon after, Dave brought out who else but DC native Bob Mould to join for “Dear Rosemary”, a truly gorgeous version of the track on the record to which he contributed. We also got Story Time with Dave, where he told us about his first broken heart at age 12. To that unfortunate girl who so wounded him he dedicated the next song, Tom Petty’s “Breakdown”, which was actually fantastic – and this is coming from someone who is more than critical of covers, especially those by artists I respect (Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, obviously, falling into that category, because I have ears, damn it!).

They wrapped it all up with “Everlong”, which was simply too wonderful for words. The lines “And I wonder/If anything could ever feel this real forever/if anything could ever be this good again” seemed to hit full force as I stood there, feeling nothing but purely, totally happy.

I made sure to get my tour t-shirt as I left, feeling pretty much like nothing could stop me (save the absolute impossibility of getting a cab after a concert in Washington, DC on a Saturday night…but that’s another story). 1 down, 3 to go.

The many faces of Dave Grohl, and some others, are your additions to the Rock Band Music Store for the week.

Beginning next Tuesday, gamers can enjoy a triple-shot of grungey Nirvana tunes, and an ice-cold four-pack of Foo Fighters, oh and some Joan Jett on the side, for that touch of randomness Harmonix so often provides.

You know le drill, each tune is a master recording and available for $2.

Available on Xbox 360 and Wii (Nov. 3) and PlayStation 3 system (Nov. 5):

• Foo Fighters — "Best of You"
• Foo Fighters — "The Pretender"
• Foo Fighters — "Wheels"
• Foo Fighters — "Word Forward"
• Nirvana — "About a Girl"
• Nirvana — "Blew"
• Nirvana — "School"
• Joan Jett & The Blackhearts — "Fake Friends"

Tracks available for Rock Band Unplugged (Nov. 5):

• Bullet For My Valentine — "Waking the Demon"
• System of a Down — "Toxicity”

Source: Rock Band Forums

Some people may find the sight of diminutive songwriter Kaki King lugging around a guitar case a bit incongruous. And unfortunately, they’re often not shy about pointing it out.

“I walk through the airport with a guitar case … and like half the time, swear to God, some douchebag’ll be going, ‘Oh, you gonna play us a song? Damn, that’s a pretty big guitar for a little lady,’” a flu-stricken and audibly annoyed King said recently, chatting via phone from the Portland airport as she waited for a flight to San Francisco for her next show. (“I decided not to drive and infect everyone else in the van,” she explained.)

But while King doesn’t court fame, the brazen belittlement from gawking onlookers is beginning to get old.

“A lot of things that used to not bother me at all are kind of starting to bother me,” the feisty guitarist continued. “No one’s ever gonna know who I am at the fuckin’ airport and that’s fine (but) it feels like they’re assuming that I can’t play guitar. It sends this message of, ‘You’re an idiot and you don’t know what you’re doing.’ …. For so many years I wouldn’t give a shit, and now it’s like, ‘Would you say that to a guy? Fuck you.’”

Anyone who has heard or seen King perform knows that, at the very least, she “knows what she’s doing.” In March, the 28-year-old musician released her fourth full-length album, “Dreaming of Revenge.”

Last year, when she wasn’t recording her own album, King kept herself busy by collaborating with a number of artists including the Foo Fighters and Tegan & Sara on their 2007 releases. She also contributed music to the films “Into the Wild” and “August Rush,” and acted as a hand double in the latter.

Despite the occasional aggravations she faces, however, King said the title of her latest effort, which is taken from a quote by painter Paul Gauguin, doesn’t offer a glimpse into her psyche. In fact, it’s quite the opposite.

“I take (the sentiment) to be so cynical and sort of horrible but also incredibly funny and tongue in cheek and just sort of true at times,” King explained. “I’m certainly not a vengeful person.”

A critical darling, King has noticed that enthusiasts unfailingly mention her gender in the same breath as her musical prowess- but also acknowledges that it’s a factor that sets her apart from many of her peers.

“This is a boys’ club,” she said matter-of-factly. “You’re like the lone female a lot of times when you’re doing this job. … I feel like when people go, ‘She’s a great female guitarist,’ it’s like, ‘oh, she’s really good for a girl.’ When there’s too much emphasis on me being a girl, I’m like, who cares? Yeah, I’m a girl. Ok, cool. We’ve established that. I definitely don’t need people to acknowledge the fact that I have tits.”

King picked up the guitar at age 5, but initially drums were her instrument of choice.

“I thought the drums were the shit and I was gonna be a drummer, but I was always a better guitar player,” she said.

Her sense of percussion allows her to create a virtual one-woman show during her live performances, although she tours with a full band. King’s innovative playing style involves alternating between fingerpicking and strumming the strings with acrylic nails, and tapping the neck of her guitar. Her fingers fly across the fretboard, creating a mind-bogglingly manic blur.

But King nonchalantly downplays her pseudo-slap technique.

“To me, it doesn’t really seem that outlandish or weird,” she said.

King describes “Dreaming of Revenge” as being replete with “slow, simple melodies,” layered over her intricate guitar parts. The predominantly instrumental record kicks off with “Bone Chaos in the Castle,” a groovy two-and-a-half minute, perk-your-ears jam sure to capture the listener’s attention. Among the few vocal tracks thrown into the mix are catchy first single “Pull Me Out Alive” and the dreamy, folk-sounding “Life Being What It Is.” In keeping with her somnolent motif, the liner notes for “Dreaming of Revenge,” designed by Seb Jarnot, include a build-your-own mobile kit of sorts, complete with cardboard punch-outs.

King said the record brings her a step closer to cultivating her own distinctive sound.

“I write very sad music and I write sad melodies in particular,” she said. “I’m not just a ‘female guitarist.’ I’m trying really hard to become Kaki King. I want to sound like, me. It’s really, really difficult. Only a few people in their lifetime really get that, but that’s still the goal … to start playing a tune and sound like you and have people recognize it to be you and no one else. That takes a lifetime, and I think people that people know that that’s the path I’m on.”

For songs that don’t fit into that path, King has a side project called Daysleeper (“It’s a reference to the fact that I sleep all day”) with her bandmate Dan Brantigan to record occasionally improvised material and “weird, quirky, techno-y, almost dance-y track” that diverge from King’s typical fare.

Currently in the midst of a tour that runs through mid-April, King said she’s excited about presenting the new tracks on the road.

“I’m really psyched,” she said enthusiastically. “All this material is so fresh.”

“It’s tough to keep it creative though, and that’s what I’ve always tried to do,” she added. “Ultimately, I’d rather be known as like, ‘Oh yeah, that sounds like Kaki King,’ rather than ‘Oh, she’s pretty good for a girl.’”

Ditching a tenured seat in the Houston Symphony to pursue a dream as a recording artist terrified Christine Wu.

But on the cusp of 30, she knew it was the only way to go. “All or nothing,” Wu said in a recent interview. “And it scares the crap out of me, probably almost every day.”

Switching from classical to rock wasn’t that difficult for Wu, a self-proclaimed “black sheep in the orchestra,” who grew up listening to rock instead of reserving all her time for the diligent study of traditional composers.

“I don’t try to sound classical at all,” she says. “I try to sound less nerdy, really.”

The now-31-year-old Santa Monica resident grew up playing the old masters, a violinist from the age of three who remembers the excitement of her first youth orchestra.

But even as she excelled, landing her first professional gig at the age of 17 in the orchestra pit at the Pittsburgh Opera, something was pulling her towards a less traditional path.

“I was listening to Jane’s Addiction. I was listening to Led Zeppelin,” she said. “As soon as I was old enough to really develop a strong interest in Metallica and hearing strings on Led Zeppelin, that really took over my focus.”

Wu spent time playing with the St. Louis Symphony before getting her biggest job, as a full-time tenured violinist at the Houston Symphony.

“Tenure is basically the job for life, unless the orchestra disappeared, so it was really something to give up,” Wu said. Three months paid vacation couldn’t keep her from uprooting last April and moving on to California for a career in the record business.

“It was really scary, but I’m sure now that it was the right thing.”

Of course some people thought she was “completely nuts,” for walking away from the coveted seat. “Especially players who were still striving for that job,” she says.

“My parents were supportive but skeptical, because they, maybe as all parents do, want you to have a stable situation. Maybe they’re afraid I’m going to start calling them for money again.”

Since her arrival Wu has enjoyed her first breaks playing studio sessions and, most recently, signing on for a world tour with Leonard Cohen, who’s been on sabbatical from the live show circuit for some 15 years.

“That was an amazing experience,” she said just after the audition for the songwriting legend. “It seems like everyone’s done a cover of his. He was really nice and had a certain intensity. By the end of each song I was just amazed.”

So far, Wu has wracked up gigs on American Idol, America’s Got Talent, and playing back-up for the Foo Fighters on Grammy night. That last one was courtesy of showcasing furious bowing skill in a YouTube video contest.

“The Grammys was a blast!” Wu said. “We got to rehearse with the Foo Fighters and hang out with them. It was really cool.”

The talented violinist has also done some string plucking for both Beyonce and Michelle Williams of Destiny’s Child fame and for Nickelodeon’s The Naked Brothers Band.

“It’s a different language,” Wu said, of switching from the somber orchestral pieces to rock ‘n roll rhythms. Part of that is being thrust into the role of accompaniment for a lead vocalist. “If there’s already a rock band there, you should enhance that and not get in the way,” she said.

For now she’s flying solo, with no back-up plan.

“I’m sure that I imagined that I could practice and audition again for an orchestra,” she says. “You just don’t know where your next call comes from. It’s tough. Ultimately I want to be producing and writing and arranging the strings and be the force behind it,” she says.

Though there will always be the allure of the stage lights. “I really do love that.”