The Flaming Lips Tour With Special Guest, Cancer

Editors’ note: The opinions and ideas expressed in this opinion piece are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the outlook and belief of anyone else in the Ist network.
I hadn't initially planned to attend The Flaming Lips show at La Zona Rosa this past Tuesday, opting to avoid possible run-ins with any "Furries", but a last-minute ticket to a Lips show is not something to turn one's nose up at, especially at a relatively intimate venue. I happily redeemed mine at the entrance expecting an exciting experience I had been privvy to before. Tramping in to the club after a sangria soaked tex-mex dinner, the mood in the group that attended with me - Austinists all - was high. As my eyes adjusted to the lighting, however, I was caught aback by the white-hot laser of strategic youth marketing that the folks at R.J. Reynolds' flagship cigarette brand, Camel, had prepared to confront us at every angle. A friendly Camel associate greeted me immediately, inquiring as to whether or not I was a smoker and directing me to free Camel products. In a daze, I bolted to the bar to grab a drink instead.
Scanning the venue, I attempted to make mental notes of Camel's full-court press on my Gen Y sensibilities: internally lit logo boxes dangling from the ceiling above the audience, free smokes flowing like black manna, a smoking lounge with comfortable couches and littered with Camel falderal beckoning to young bottoms, adjectives such as "smooth", "flavorful", and "Turkish" were projected to us randomly, and attractive blondes operating activity kiosks for us to while away our time at such as the Camel Sand-Art booth (I briefly pondered what birdbrained marketing associate proposed Sand-Art as an effective way to reach culturally aware 18-35 year olds.)
All, ostensibly, to get us to purchase and use an item that would invariably kill us.
Minutes later, Wayne Coyne and his fellow Lips kicked off the show with the most ironic song they could have possibly chosen from their catalog: "Race For The Prize", a song about two scientists looking for a cure to an enigmatic, and perhaps symbolic malady. Cancer, perhaps?
This isn't a show review, though. This is a Dear John letter from a former fan, so saddened by the display of audacious hypocrisy and peer ennui that I had to hold back tears after the show, describing the travesty to a friend. Suffice it to say, sonically the show was so-so. A giant LED display behind the band played footage to compliment the music, confetti and smoke spewed from the sides of the stage, giant pink balloons floated into the crowd like so many metastasized tumors, and Coyne engaged in his usual antics: singing through a megaphone, prattling on about things that flashed into his drug-addled mind, and playing the part he's created for himself as the mad conductor-scientist. Not much has changed about their stage show since I saw them at the Ridglea Theater in Fort Worth several years ago, touring on their masterpiece The Soft Bulletin.
Something else has changed. I didn't think much of Coyne's appearance in ads for Philips electronics and Hewlett-Packard a couple years back, but I let it slide. "They can shill if they want"," I thought, assuming that they, of all bands, were conscious of where the line must be drawn to maintain their mantle. Hell, we mustn't forget that this is a group straight outta the major labels, not "Indie" by any stretch of the imagination, unless you count assembling Seussian machines in their backyards for their precocious live sets and starring in endearing documentaries that tout their humble roots. At any rate, the Lips' legacy was solid after getting back into some great remasters of old albums, Soft Bulletin, and Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots. At War With the Mystics sucked, but most of us forgave them, crossing our fingers for albums to come.
Yet as Wayne pranced and pontificated onstage and, one by one, my friends trickled out of the venue in disgust, I realized that I would never be able to listen to their music again without associating them with this sad spectacle. For a band whose music attempts to make sense of fundamentally fascinating and bewildering subjects like love, life, death, and outer space, it was an unforgivable offense to witness my once-beloved sages, purveyors of a crazy, comforting wisdom, allowing themselves to be associated with the death merchants at R.J. Reynolds and their sinister, cynical pandering to our generation. A band who has penned meditiations on mortality, fans succumbing to heart disease, the insanity of war, and the simple, complex beauty of pretty much everything in the universe, their presence on Camel's dime eviscerated the legitimacy of these artistic statements. What's more, Wayne's lengthy pedantries on the folly of the war in Iraq rang hollow, framed by artwork encouraging us to become or stay addicted to a carcinogenic product. Yes, Wayne, war is bad. It kills people. But don't cigarettes as well?
As a longtime fan, an ashamed smoker trying to quit, and a citizen of this great city I'll be damned if I patronize another event sponsored by Camel. Has our apathy reached so deep that we don't mind our musical icons being bought and sold by Big Tobacco? What's next? Radiohead brought to you by Raytheon? The Arcade Fire sponsored by General Dynamics? We live in a capitalist system. R.J. is free to sponsor whatever they want. But we don't have to concede our time and head-space to these people. We merely encourage their parasitic advances on the culture that we hold so dear when we choose to attend these events.
Wayne, Steve, and Mike, to quote one of your songs: with all your power, what the hell are you doing?
Live photos from the show courtesy o100man on Flickr
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