Knights In Satan's Service

GOOD THING THAT CMJ is about to start, so I can catch up on hot new acts like the Donnas and Camper Van Beethoven. Until then, I'm pretty happy to be at Ronnie James Dio's show at the Beacon Theatre. Never mind that the heavy-metal legend has become kind of a joke for his litigious ways, from threatening alt-rockers Dios with a lawsuit to trying to claim copyright on the classic flashing of Satanic horns.

Also, he once threatened a friend of mine with a curse that would cause an ear infection.

Dio's probably also offending people by turning a block of Upper Broadway into a Heavy Metal Parking Lot. There are occasional crazed shouts of "DIIIIO!" Somebody in a Whitesnake t-shirt is pontificating on the greatness of Winger. Another is loudly proclaiming Ozzy Osbourne's ability to out-sing? Well, the whole wide world, it seems.

And unlike concerts where it's uncool to wear the t-shirt of the band you're going to see, the object here seems to be wearing as much Dio merchandise as possible. I'm counting Black Sabbath merch, too. Maybe you don't need this much insight into the Dio audience, but you're getting it anyway. The alternative is for me to be inside watching Fireball Ministry.

I'm not here to goof on anyone, though. I originally committed to attending this show back when I thought hair-metal legend Jeff Pilson was touring on bass with the band. Now it seems I'm mainly here because the alternative is Supergrass.

As it turns out, I'm also pleasantly surprised to find Anthrax is playing. That's pretty cool, and they put on a good show. Anthrax is like George Clinton. They fit on any bill-but guitarist Scott Ian sounds particularly litigious introducing a song that he claims "defines thrash metal." The only disappointment is while I'm musing about how much fun it is to be watching this band rather than, say, aging leftists like Bad Religion. That's when Anthrax brings out special musical guest Chuck D.

At least Chuck doesn't try to lecture the crowd. Maybe he's noticed how hard it is to figure them out. The lights come up, and I can't tell the fat-slob homicidal bikers from the fat-slob pathetic nerds. The exception is this guy in an Iron Maiden t-shirt who's reading a vintage Amazing Spider-Man from the 70s. He carefully puts the comic back in the plastic bag when he's done.

Then a long-haired Hispanic guy strolls by wearing a Union Jack as a cape. An employee of the Beacon watches the fan pass. "This is some fucked-up shit," he notes.

Dio comes out to insane screams, and knocks out an opening number before announcing there won't be much onstage patter. It seems the band has "a lot of songs to do." This doesn't keep the third song from ending with a long drum solo. There'll also be time for a well-received seven-minute guitar showcase. Still, I'm a little disappointed every time Dio makes it back onstage without even a costume change.

Come to think of it, the guys in Anthrax also kept wandering backstage. I'd like to think this means a hidden stash of drugs or groupies. More likely, there's a television showing an important ball game.

There aren't any surprises. Dio's token Sabbath classic is the second song of the evening. The backdrop is a giant canvas of the demon from the cover of the new Master of the Moon album, and its eyes are glowing by the end of the fourth song. Dio's catalogue has always been surprisingly melodic in service to Satan. So was Anton Levy's. The show slowly becomes predictable, but that's because Beacon Theatre-like Jones Beach-always wraps up the music by 11 pm. It's the kind of venue where everyone has to get home to the babysitter.

The audience doesn't mind. They file out eager to buy more Dio gear, including a "Dio Kicks Ass" t-shirt. However, it might be legal to claim that other people kick ass. I'll also see a pathetic Cool Dad buying a Fireball Ministry t-shirt that proclaims his son to be a "Full Stack Mother Fucker." This reminds me that babysitters aren't waiting at home for this crowd. Grandma's probably been watching the kids since 1997.

It's a different kind of Litigious Follies over at Avery Fisher Hall at Lincoln Center, as the ACLU hosts their Freedom Concert fundraiser. My clever plan is to ask celebrities exactly how-as according to the ACLU's press release-their "basic civil liberties are being threatened." That idea falls apart after nearly all the attending celebrities oppress the media by skipping the red carpet.

I can't blame them. It's lined with the usual media hacks wanting quotes about the celebrities' favorite Christmas presents. I'm standing by a ditz from People who's repeating a questionable story about Infinity Broadcasting that she got from a member of the Dixie Chicks. I tell her that she should consider checking the facts before putting that into an article.

"I don't think so," she replies. "That's my main source."

To his credit, the likable Jake Gyllenhaal is quick to note that he's got nothing to complain about with his own basic civil liberties. Minnie Driver is simply an idiot. I give up and decide to actually attend the concert. I should be outraged that my bag gets searched, but I don't have access to a lawyer.

Sadly, that doesn't delay me enough to miss an annoying introduction in which the ACLU's executive director lets the crowd know that he'll need money if Kerry is elected. Phillip Glass also comes out to remind us how important it is to be "outspoken at this most important time." I guess he's referring to how the ACLU needs money, too.

The concert starts with Paul Simon playing "America." The audience has a big laff at the line about how the man in the gabardine suit has a bowtie that's really a camera. Simon dourly nods like a good clown, but it would've never struck me as relevant. Obviously, it's going to be hard for me to get into the spirit of things.

Simon brings out the Dixie Hummingbirds for "Loves Me Like a Rock"-or, as the Associated Press would later report, "a gospel song"-and the crowd starts clapping like it's a hootenanny. And just like when I see old footage of hootenannies, I'm wondering how many of these happy idiots supported the Communist Party while they were murdering Jews. I eventually start enjoying myself by pretending that the evening is a tribute to Eisenhower.

Sadly, that doesn't last once Richard Gere comes onto the stage. "I don't know about the Patriot Act," he says of the musicians, "but I think that's the patriots right there." I briefly wonder if this millionaire Buddhist is suggesting that I'm un-American. That couldn't happen at a good leftist event, right? That's what I'm telling myself as Gere adds, "We're not gonna allow them to steal our country!"

Maybe I'm being paranoid, but I get the feeling that I'm one of "them." I'm glad I didn't pay good money to have my patriotism questioned.

Gere introduces the Black Keys, who are always reliable as a low-rent ZZ Top. Then I'm happy to see LaWanda Page step to the podium. I'm mistaken, of course. It's somebody dressed like a homeless woman, playing it up as an offensive black stereotype. But it's not offensive to this crowd-especially once we establish it's the leftist's favorite kind of homeless person. You know the type: sensitive, insightful, a Democrat, and full of wisdom while saying things in a real funny voice.

The homeless woman switches personas into a new offensive stereotype, and I realize I'm watching playwright and actress Sarah Jones. She's doing the same Jewish woman that prompted me to walk out the last time I saw one of her one-woman shows. I can't think of a reason not to walk out again. I guess it'd be funny to see Lou Reed reduced to trotting out "Walk on the Wild Side," but I'd probably first have to endure Robin Williams or Patti Smith.

Besides, I've already been insulted enough for being a dissenter. I head out as the audience breaks into renewed laughter. Jones is hamming it up as an immigrant from India, and you know how funny those people are. o