The Adventures of
Captain Zero
and his trusty sidekick Numba Wan
Posted Monday, May 27, 2002
Sasha and Digweed
17 May 2002 – Fillmore Auditorium, Denver, CO

The wife was in the mood for dancing, and said she really liked the youthful energy of a good techno dance, so we went to one of our favorite indoor venues, the Fillmore Auditorium, which hosted Sasha and John Digweed Friday night. She had a feeling it would be good, and her intuition is often right on these things. Indeed there were lots of beautiful and energetic kids out for a good time standing outside the venue when we arrived. Always a good sign, we agreed. We got in the line to get in, and quickly realized she was in the guys’ line with me. She deftly snuck over to the girls’ line with her ticket, but I soon realized she would need her id. As soon as I started looking around for her, our eyes met, I mouthed “You need your ID, and passed it to her across three rows of people. The night seemed to have that sort of spontaneously alert energy.

Pairs of purple-lit chandeliers span the length of the Fillmore’s spacious hall over a large open dance floor surrounded by probably six bars. The wall on one side is covered with hundreds of concert photographs of all your favorite rock stars in action. We stepped up to one of the bars to order a Long Island iced tea for the missus and a screwdriver for me, when we realized the bartender was a friend of a friend who we’d met a few times and had once smoked up with me in the parking lot of a Bronco game. Angie recognized us and danced behind her dark glasses as she prepared our drinks; we surveyed the photographs along the wall. Besides a number I couldn’t name, we saw a sexy and tortured Fiona Apple up there plus one with the lead singer – a hooligan perhaps – poised slumped to the right, arms clasped behind his back. “Is that Oasis, Angie?” I asked, though I knew it must be, and she stepped over to confirm it. “We love those guys,” we confessed to her and she said she saw them last year with the Black Crowes. So had we, of course, and then she dropped a Bombshell of Earth Shattering Proportions. She’d heard a few days ago one of the Gallagher brothers had murdered his ex-wife in cold blood. We were stunned. I hadn’t heard of that, and though I tend to pay close attention it could have happened below my radar, and it’s interesting in theory just how plausible the story was. I could easily see either a drunken Liam or a calculating Noel doing something like that, which could only lead to the very public discrediting and ultimately humiliating disintegration of my favorite band. It would be a tremendous spectacle, the OJ Simpson of Rock ‘n’ Roll, only bigger and with a low-class Lymie accent.

I was rolling the idea over in my mind, ruing the fact I couldn’t confirm it Right Now as I’ve become accustomed in this Information Age, as we stepped onto the dance floor. We grew more tipsy as we snaked our way through the crowd toward the stage, finally parking ourselves in a high-traffic zone against a bank of huge speakers. Every half-second was a thunderous beat, and a pretty but timid melody surfed atop it, and tribal images flashed across the multitude of screens, as lights flashed abundantly. A fog machine occasionally belched a cloud of vapor, which a battery of laser shot through toward the back of the hall. Kids were dancing everywhere, most of them having a great time talking and scamming and making the rounds. The wife started losing herself in dancing, which is what she wanted and therefore what I wanted too, and my mind became reflective.

After an hour or so on the dance floor, we had finished four Long Island iced teas and a vodka-orange between us, and we stumbled to the back of the cavernous hall and parked ourselves at a convenient overlook right beneath a dozen laser beams emanating from the stage. It was there that a friendly young fellow named Matt introduced himself. Matt was from Shreveport, Louisiana in town visiting friends. He introduced his friend Daisy "from England" who hugged each of us and then absently bounced off into the crowd. Matt hung around awhile, and he explained to me the Secret of Sasha and Digweed, whose music had struck me thus far as serviceable but unremarkable. All night I had noticed there was only one dude up on the stage, and mused that either Sasha or Digweed had called in sick today. Matt explained that they do it tag team style, first one will spin for a time then the other will take over. That explained the periodic but subtle breaks in the flow. All in all I think they worked effectively as a tag team, but most of the kids there seemed lost in their own techno-fueled worlds of ecstasy and intrigue, and probably didn't care much beyond the excuse to party. I thanked Matt for the explanation and recommended he get his friends to take him to a show at Red Rocks next time he was in town.

A few minutes later, we headed for the car, and drove home through quaint little downtown Denver under a hazy fat crescent moon to the Verve's early gem Storm In Heaven. After forty-five minutes that felt like ten, we arrived at our home in the mountains and I ran upstairs to log on and check if one of the Gallaghers had gone and killed his ex, ruining everything.