Afroman played the Boone Saloon on Sunday night, October 18th. Your correspondent did not see it.
He had been convinced he’d seen tickets listed for $5 somewhere on Eventbrite, but he missed his chance to buy early and decided to take his chances at the door. He walked to the venue, strolling past silent sentinel deer, and fell into conversation with the crew outside, who urged him to be careful crossing the street. Someone had been hit by a car the night before.
Your correspondent asked the price of a ticket and was told $100. He laughed and asked where the nearest ATM was.
Upon his return, the price was said again. $100.
“I thought y’all were pulling my leg about that,” your correspondent said.
“No,” they said. “It’s Afroman.”
Seeing the confusion plain on his face, the general manager pointed out that the downstairs was open as normal. So your correspondent went downstairs, asked the bartender if they had a Narragansett, and — defeated once again — got a PBR. The room was strung with Christmas lights, the pool tables were healthily full, and a crowd was slowly growing. At one point, a pop-punk version of “Hava Nagila” came on, and the bar seemed to come to a clapping, mild and ironic hora*-*dancing life. As the song played, your correspondent wondered how on earth he would write the review.
If he had gone upstairs, had snuck over the rope line at the bottom of the stairs, had invoked some sort of unusual authority (“Don’t you know who I am? I’m friends with someone who was in one episode of the second season of Amazon’s Jury Duty!”), he might have gone on to write that the best of Afroman’s music lives in the moment before you hear the snap, hiss, and crack of a beer can opening; the moment you land on a couch and discover it’s more comfortable than you expected; the elation of relaxation. He would have wrestled with how he isn't necessarily a fan — there’s something a little too MAD Magazine with what he does — but that that doesn’t keep him from fiercely admiring how Afroman stood up for himself in the face of police intimidation and harassment with both Lemon Pound Cake and Freedom of Speech.
Instead, your correspondent finished his drink and left, disappearing into nighttime streets full of deer and the distant sound of Rocky Horror coming from the App Theatre.
Verdict: I did not see the show/10.