There are several signs plastered in plain sight around the Black Cat stating that any crowdsurfers or stage divers will be removed from the premises without a refund. This is usually a pretty good deterrent. There are the occasional shows (Jay Reatard’s Backstage set in 2009 comes to mind) where fistfights and shoving matches arise, but usually the level of danger is contingent upon the kinetic energy of the mosh pit—and nothing more.
But the first several rows of the Ty Segall audience last Thursday were comprised almost entirely of teenagers, the kind of kids who wear the band’s T-shirt to the show and can still lose control without the aid of alcohol. Oh, yeah, and they also do things like crowd-surf because they have yet to experience the utter joy that is a 200-pound body compressing their skull into their shoulders or the delight that is a hiking boot to the temple. The crowd-surfing began on the second song, “You’re the Doctor,” prompting immediate action from the Black Cat’s security team.
Irritating airborne footwear aside, the brilliant thing about having teenagers en masse at shows is their utter investment in the music in front of them. Segall has a wide variety of songs among his seven LPs that range from Velvet Underground-esque psychedelia to Lennon-like acoustic ballads. But the vast majority of this set eschewed the calmer songs and sludgier tunes in favor of the quicker, louder and faster songs culled primarily from 2010’s Melted and last year’s double-shot of Slaughterhouse and Twins. The crowd knew all of the album’s nuances, shouting out the “FUCK YEAH!” at the end of Segall’s most dramatic performance, “Wave Goodbye,” and yelling requests for a wide assortment of other tunes.
Segall was fully aware of his effect on the youth at the show, exiting into the crowd after his set to autograph albums, smile for photos, and chat up his fan base. He also rose to the occasion as the entire band threw themselves into the show. The only obvious misstep was the truly off key harmony that Segall tried to do with bassist Mikal Cronin at the beginning of his love song to San Francisco, “The Hill.” But then drummer Emily Rose Epstein propelled the song into hop-worthy territory and all was forgiven.
