Las Vegas Weekly

February 6, 2009 · 4:48 PM

An open letter to the guys sitting behind me at last night’s Love show

By John Katsilometes

This is not the time to start shouting about tea drinking.

Photo: Leila Navidi

Dear Guys Sitting Behind Me At Last Night’s “Love’” Show

Shut up.

By, “shut up,” I mean, can you take your bachelor party elsewhere? At least it seems like a bachelor party going on back there. If so, God help the soon-to-be Mrs. Dan-Dan Buffoonery.

All this party is missing is a visit from LV Weekly's stripper blogger, “Justice.”

So keep it down. Dorks.

Take it to Revolution Lounge, or better, the fourth floor of the parking garage. That’s the one with the “4th Floor,” sign hued in purple, which matches the color of my face right now.

Stuff a sock in it, fellas.

There is no need to yelp, “Anyone got any marijuana?” as the show is about to start.

Stop singing along with, and thus defiling, such classics as “Hey Jude,” especially when you come in a few counts early on the “na-na-na-na” segment. It’s fine to sing out of tune and out of time at Tommy Rocker’s, or even Tommy Bahama, but not here.

Clamp it.

My point: When you and your friends record a hoard of timeless classics that help shape the cultural sensibilities of an entire generation, that’s when you can harmonize in a sold-out theater. But tonight is not the night.

Remember, you: Spectator. Smallish, Spandex-wearing acrobats attached to bungee cords and coated in heavy makeup: Performers.

Zip it! Zip!

Surrounding us high and low and even embedded in our seats are more than 6,000 speakers, none of which were installed to amplify your dronings. You are not in the shower. You’re not stuck in traffic. You’re not at Dino’s, The Last Neighborhood Bar.

Stifle yourselves.

No, at the start of “Come Together,” it is entirely unnecessary for you to call out, “It’s ‘Come Together’ time, baybeeee!’ ”

Here come old flattop, and he is pissed.

Oh yeah, I’ll tell you something: It’s a waste of energy and a nuisance to all of those around you is to high-five as “I Wanna Hold Your Hand” kicks in.

When Lucy in the Sky appears on a trapeze high above the stage, please don’t shout, “Hey, Craig! We got us a redhead!”

Press the “pause” button. Hit “mute.”

This isn’t a taping of “Frat Boys Gone Wild.”

Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville at the Flamingo is a better place for your crew, as I sense a conga line is about to form. Someone, order a quartet of skirts made of grass! And maracas!

Ask yourselves, guys, how does shouting, “Here it comes! The suuuuuuun!” before the aptly titled song, enhance your entertainment experience?

Is calling out, “Beetles and the Beatles! Awesome!” when the first VW bug rolls onstage an important enough of a newsbreak to share with those around you?

Use your “inside” voice, kids.

Ducking beneath the great white silk that covers the audience during, “Tomorrow Never Knows/Within You Without You” is not your cue to shout, “It’s time to drink some tea! Pass the tea!”

A woman sitting behind you traveled from Orlando, Fla., just to see this particular performance. Is calling out, “It’s ‘Help!’ time, guys! Extreme ‘Help!’ Yeah-haha!” going to enlarge her appreciation for the Beatles? Or their music? Or her evening?

Did I just hear someone belch?

I would be glad to take up a collection from those seated around me to get you to muzzle yourselves, or leave, or both.

It’s been a hard day’s night, all right.

Yours in fellowship,

Johnny Katsilometes

Annoyed In The Row In Front Of You

The Mirage

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