by E-Dub (Eric Wendt) and Dallas VonKillbot (published Sept. 2009)
Eric: Walking into the show left me with the kind of nervous energy I usually only get when my car breaks down in the wrong side of town. Or when I’m showing a woman my penis for the first time.
Dallas: We entered with a set of assumptions that were quickly blown out of realistic proportions as mass herds of anemographic clowns soon consumed my entire field of vision.
Eric: After scoping out the crowd that had overrun the Senator, my partner and I decided to duck into Duffy’s to fortify ourselves with cheap booze. This is when we realized that the juggalo nation had infested our only port in the storm.
Dallas: They not only were running amok through our fair city, they had the gall to break into the holiest of the holy, our sanctuary. After a speechless yet over-spoken set of glances exchanged with the bouncer, we entered the bar like six year-olds diving into icy waters, figuring it would be best to get the pain out of the way early. They were there in all forms: the brogalos. the juggalettes, the methgalos. the obesegalos… the list is infinite.
Eric: Sweaty. screaming bodies packed Duffy’s like it was their personal circus freak convention. Pabst was being poured down the gullets of fat clowns faster than it takes the average ICP fan to get sentenced for methamphetamine possession. Chants of “Whoop Whoop” could be heard throughout the bar as bouncers and bartenders alike stared in frightened fascination. Long story short: psychopathic clowns don’t tip. You know the KISS Army would’ve ponied up a few bucks.
After some much needed liquid courage, my partner and I returned to the venue right as ICP took the stage. I have to hand it to them: ICP knows how to put on a show. The stage looked like a circus from hell. A ringmaster introduced the duo as sideshow freaks writhed in cages. It was like a bad acid trip at a carnival in Bakersfield.
Dallas: This wasn’t just a concert for these people: it was some form of religious ceremony in which there was to be some form of sacrifice. I’m sure there’s much to be said for whoever the hell the openers were, but that wasn’t our goal. We were there for the fans, and these people weren’t fucking around with the appetizers, they were there for the main course.
In a moment’s notice, things went from bizarre to bat-shit crazy: the nearly maximum capacity theater exploded like a 12-gauge. There they were, in all their glory, the men that have managed to turn a horrorcore act into religion: Violent J and Shaggy 2 Dope, aka Insane Clown Posse. The crowd surfers started immediately, with the fat clown launching a two-liter of Faygo up into the rafters seconds after. Throughout the first track alone, I’m guessing 40-50 bottles were sprayed over the juggalos. Aside from a particularly dark and melodic number, the soda wash didn’t stop the entire night, which leaves one to ponder about how many diabetic clowns accidentally slipped into a coma.
Eric: Mere words cannot express the spectacle forever burned into my retinas that night. The lights! The feathers! The confetti! The horrible puns and necrophilia-themed rhymes! Two-liters were soaring through the air like sugar propelled rocket ships. Syrupy liquid rained down upon the crowd like a cruel joke from a vengeful god. Sticky mutants danced in a lake of fluorescent pop as multi-colored lights flashed out the Morse code of the apocalypse.
Dallas: At one point I managed to break my glare at the stage long enough to notice the world’s largest female clown standing next to me in some pure state of ecstasy. I thought for a minute about how pretentious it is that we were there on some high-horsed, socio-anthropological mission as these deviants were genuinely having an experience that they’re going to cherish, as if in someway I was hierarchically better than them. As I was just about to transcend clown nirvana, a two-liter of orange Faygo rocketed into the seat in front of me, dousing me with high fructose corn syrup and shame..
Eric: So what does it all mean? What have I learned? Fuck if I know, dude. My head hurts and I’m still sticky. What I do know is this: the people in that audience were utterly devoted to the group. They were an unquestioning congregation of crazy clowns ready to do the bidding of their high priests. They were an army with one mind, completely consumed by what their generals tried to pass off as music.
Dallas: We sat in the back of Duffy’s, silent. Sorry ICP, we tried to hang… the war was over, the juggalos won.