The Yuppie Pricks Meet Office Space
the Alamo Drafthouse.
to all—go there to watch movies or Mr. Sinus theatre, but
don’t plan on mixing it up with music. The crowd won’t
get it. Throw in the Yuppie Pricks, and that’s just asking
for trouble. If I had a dollar for every person I saw in the audience
scratching their heads or squirming in their seats, I’d be
as rich as Trevor Middleton. The majority of the crowd wasn’t
receptive to or amused with the Yuppie Pricks. They just didn’t
get it. All they wanted was to watch a fucking movie that they could
easily rent at Blockbuster. The audience couldn’t accept this
opulent, ornate gift of excess that Trevor, Deuce and Preston extended
with manicured hands—an opportunity to rock with the Yuppie
that’s probably what the band wanted, because it allowed them
to be even more obnoxious and insulting to the patrons. That was
quite entertaining in and of itself. Call me masochistic, but I
liked being insulted by three handsome, well-dressed corporate types.
Usually I don’t dig gimmick bands, but their gimmick works.
It works because they really are laughing at us, not with us.
the type of pricks that would make fun of a mentally retarded door
greeter at Wal-Mart. That’s if they ever actually did set
foot inside a low-income conglomerate such as Wal-Mart, but that’s
highly unlikely. My only wish was to have seen them on Red River
instead of a fucking movie theatre where the Yahoos outnumbered
the rockers. The conventional crowd’s lack of interaction
left an unpalatable aftertaste on the roof of my mouth that I couldn’t
shake no matter how many shots I had through the course of the evening.
a feeling that Trevor and the group were a bit reserved in the execution
of their songs and overall interaction with the crowd. I’ve
heard the stories and seen photos from previous Yuppie Pricks shows,
and I’m pretty sure this was an atypical, sterile venue for
them. You can’t force-feed this type of musical affluence
to an impoverished commoner. It just ain’t gonna happen.
highpoint of the evening was hearing some asshole yell out something
to the effect of, “Get off the stage, and start the movie!”
To which Deuce crassly replied, “Why don’t you fucking
come up here and make me?” The Yuppie Pricks were Crunk with
a capital C.