So I’m at Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson last night, and in the row ahead of me, a long-haired gentleman (wearing what I believe was an “I’m Andrew $%#@ing Jackson” T-shirt) gave his neighbors a painstakingly nuanced clinic in populist seat-dancing, air-drumming, and headbanging. Yes, friends: I think I may have spotted my very first Jackalo.
You’re familiar with the Juggalos, of course? Radical acolytes of the Insane Clown Posse? Well, similar concept here, minus the greasepaint and the Faygo: The passion, the confrontational physicality, the matted knots of irony and sincerity — they’re all present in abundance. And, I sense, distinct from the characteristics of Rentheads and the alleged in-seat fellaters of American Idiot. No, no: This individual put the “fest” in “manifest destiny,” an offstage extension of the show’s celebratory song-of-itself that set him apart from mere fanhood. Now, who knows: Guy could’ve been recruited and trained by the show’s producer, Jeffrey Richards, in some sort of Les Freres Corbusier reeducation camp. But he passed my Real American smell test: He was young and sunglassed-at-night, Dude-ishly tressed, and casually attired. He’d choreographed hand gestures for nearly every single number. During “Rock Star,” I could feel the vibrations of his air-drumming and headbanging from several seats away. Unto us a cult is given? You tell me. And please, post your Jackalo sightings here!