Foo Fighters at the Black Cat in D.C.
Six years ago my then-girlfriend (now wife) and I saw an IMAX film of U2 playing in Peru. I remember that we saw the movie, I remember that we enjoyed it, but as far as the actual content goes, the only distinct memory of the actual film I have is how rabid the tens of thousands of Peruvian concert-goers were; adult men crying, women fainting, a sea of human beings so on-top-of-each other that their faces had become indistinguishable. I’ve seen so many shows through the years whether at intimate clubs or massive festivals, but I’d still never been part of a crowd so possessed, so primal, so connected as the Peruvian crowd from the U2 film. That changed at 11pm Friday October 24thwhen The Foo Fighters took the stage at DC’s Black Cat. (venue capacity: 700)
The evening opened with a screening of the Foos’ latest installment of their self-directed HBO docu-series “Sonic Highways”, with this episode focusing on the history of DC’s storied go-go and Punk’s scenes and looking at the huge influence the city had on frontman Dave Grohl’s upbringing as a young musician. The program could be wildly entertaining, but in truth I can recall little of it, save for how good the film’s music sounded booming through the Black Cat’s pristine house system. When the show ended and the credits came up so did too Fugazi’s “Waiting Room.” The track rumbled, at which point I turned to my friend Chris on my right – “Dude, if this sounds so good how are the Foos going to sound?” Less than 90 seconds later we would find out.
The credits ended, the two onstage monitors went black, stage hands pulled them away swiftly…and like Vikings emerging from a fog, five giants moved out of the stage left shadows and onto the Black Cat stage; “ MY GOD IT’S REALLY THEM!!!” screamed over five hundred people simultaneously.
(“Get a drink, it’s gonna be a long night.” – Dave Grohl, 35 seconds into the set.)
The band exploded into a violent take of “Pretender”, and from the first chorus it was clear this show was unlike any I had ever attended. This wasn’t a “Foo Fighters, former Wembley stadium headliners show” – this was a punk show in the basement of a DC church, this was a crack band playing in some kid’s basement to his drunk friends, this was a tribal gathering of screaming disciples bowing before our high-chief of rock Dave Grohl. By the end of the night I would end up within 12 inches of Grohl’s mic stand, but I’m so glad I began the show some 10 rows back; here I could see all of the Ramonesian fist pumping and strained screaming throats of the crowd in front.
From “Pretender” came a pounding hour of some of rock radio’s most recognizable hits of the last decade plus: a tight, bouncing “Learn to Fly”, the soaring group-hug that was “My Hero.” The greatest hits tour that was the first 60 minutes could’ve been all and the Foo-Faithful would’ve certainly left content. Little did we know, we were only about one third through the gig.
The band’s second hour comprised of all covers, and not the often indulgent and obscure covers that you see so many bands selfishly play. We’re talking dive-bar jukebox staples: Tom Petty’s “Breakdown”, the Stones’ “Miss You”, Van Halen’s “Ain’t Talkin Bout Love” were the highest of face-melting highlights.
As hour two winded down, so did too a teasing Taylor Hawkins behind the drums. Panting, a soaked Hawkins whined to his lead singer that at 43 he was questioning whether or not he could hang any longer. The Foo frontman’s reply was vintage Dave Grohl – “well I’m 45 and feel just fine m*****f***er.” So launched the third hour’s tidal wave, another sprint-through a songbook that’s now as bulletproof as any A-list headliner fronting your Neighborhood-PaloozaRoo today – “The Walk”, “Big Me”, and an especially earnest “Arlandria” (a mash of Arlington and Alexandria, Grohl’s longtime stomping grounds.)
And so was the night - a sweat-drenched BO-filled rager with the most famous house-band on the planet fronted by rock’s most endearing ham.
By “Everlong”, the night’s final song, it was visibly clear that this show meant a lot to Grohl, who several times through the night detailed his adolescent punk-kid exploits in Northern Virginia and the District. He was screaming and beaming with an appreciation that was tangible; he and the band gave their everything, and so did too the hundreds packed in front of the stage. It was on “Everlong” that I realized I was in that crowd I’d always wanted to be in in, the crowd from the U2 movie, the crowd with crying men and the women who were fighting off fainting because they believed in the music that-fucking-much. A good show typically serves as a jolt to a festival day or the start of a fun night on the town – a great show haunts you and stays with you for days and makes you genuinely wish that time-travel was possible. Foo Fighters at Black Cat was the latter.
Thank you Dave Grohl for being so vocally proud of your DC-native-ness, and, more importantly, thank you Foo Fighters for one of the three or four best shows of my entire life.
Tyler C. Jeffries
