Jonny Numb

[Author’s Note – this post originated in September 2023, shortly after seeing L7 on their “In Your Space” Tour. For various reasons, I have put off finishing it until now.]

I operate on a reward-based system: “do a thing (usually a thing you don’t want to do)” = “get a reward”.

You know that video of the two cats who ring a bell because they’ll get a treat for doing so? Same principle.

I’ve been this way for as long as I can remember. Granted, I am also prone to protracted fits of sedentary laziness, where I’d rather watch movies (or, in rarer cases, update this site) than lift a finger to do something productive or useful. It all depends on what kind of mood I’m in.

I could watch this for hours…

But in any event: I’d scheduled a big two-day work meeting to coincide prior to an ambitious (for me, at least) concert plan. Earlier this year, the great L7 announced a small-scale, club-based tour, and I decided, “what the hell – I’ll take a road trip to New Jersey to see them!” (The other driving-distance locations were New York and DC and…thanks, but no thanks.)

I’d seen L7 play Philly’s Union Transfer on two occasions (in 2019 and last year for the Bricks Are Heavy anniversary tour), and it was a great time. But the notion of seeing them in a more intimate club venue seemed like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for those (like me) who came of age in the ’90s and missed out on the days before bands like Nine Inch Nails hit the Big Time and graduated to arena shows.

So yeah…I was excited. L7 also has the type of energy (less theatrical and more visceral) that I thought would translate well to a smaller-capacity venue (more on that later). And, as I’d done with Skinny Puppy earlier this year, I decided to splurge on the VIP soundcheck-meet & greet-photo op package, because why not? YOLO, as the kids say…

Wait…what do you mean, “YOLO’s not a thing anymore”?!

I managed to stuff everything I needed into my bookbag (a few books/magazines if I had any down time) and a reusable bag (some snacks, a change of clothes, and my toiletries), kissed my partner and cat (not the same entity) goodbye, and left around 12:30 on September 14 for the nearly 3-hour drive to Asbury Park, New Jersey.

The state remains largely uncharted territory for me – I’ve visited parts of it through the years (Wildwood for a beach vacation when I was 11; Cherry Hill for countless Monster Mania Cons; the Parsippany-Troy Hills area for Chiller Theatre and Dark Force Fest; and to visit the ‘ol Greg Palko homestead), but not with enough frequency to gain much familiarity or comfort with my surroundings.

Therefore, the ebb and flow of traffic led to a few white-knuckle moments as I kept mostly to the middle lane (when available) as folks flew by on my left doing 90. Yes, I’m really becoming that Annoying Old Man who would rather keep a tractor-trailer length between me and the car in front of me, rather than buzz in and out of lanes like some douchebag bumblebee all jacked up on Starbucks.

In any event, I’ll spare you all the hot merging action, and put my arrival time in picturesque Ocean Grove at around 3:30, giving me a little over an hour to locate the venue (Wonder Bar, which, in addition to being a delightful play on words, has a terrifying, old-fashioned “smiley face” mascot emblazoned on the outer and inner walls).

After working up a disgusting sweat on the boardwalk by walking in the wrong direction (any ocean breeze was no match for the fuck-you-bitch heat from the sun), Google Maps redeemed my quest by setting my directionally challenged self on the correct path (which, once revealed, was very close to my AirBnB, indeed).

The closer I got to Wonder Bar, the more restaurants and touristy distractions came into view. Being the off-season, the boardwalk was easily navigable, with people spread out between the restaurants, benches, and beach. I always kind of hated going to the beach, even as a kid – I hated walking around, hated the heat, and hated the crowds, and being there after Labor Day made me realize I’d never been to a beach during the off-season.

I bypassed a wedding party taking photos on the boardwalk before locating the club at around 4:30 (the VIP portion was tentatively scheduled for 4:45). The only other person waiting was Eli (from Poughkeepsie, New York), who was seeing L7 for the first time. We made small talk as more people showed up – I didn’t get their names, so I will identify them based on their T-shirts:

Ozzy (Black Sabbath): tall man with a robust, distinctive laugh; was actually waiting to pick up a GA ticket, but wound up purchasing a VIP package while hanging out. Talked about living in Berlin and Spear of Destiny (Theatre of Hate side project).

Donna #1 (The Donnas): short woman who was fretting over not getting any email correspondence after purchasing her VIP package. I reassured her that the coordinator would be going off a list of names. She mentioned she is in involved with the management side of a band that is currently touring Europe.

Plain White: guy who saw L7 at Lollapalooza ’94, and was wearing the autographed plain white T-shirt to prove it. We wound up talking a couple times over the course of the night. Really nice guy who was also going to the L7 tour stop in NYC.

Also, during the course of our wait on the sidewalk (during which we could hear most of L7’s extended soundcheck through the bay doors along the side of the building), a nicely-dressed girl passed by and said, “nice shirt” without a trace of irony. For a second, I wondered if she was part of the nearby wedding party. I was wearing one of the tour shirts acquired during Skinny Puppy’s Philly performance in April.

While it may have seemed an incongruous choice to represent a Canadian Industrial act at an L7 show, my rationale was: I did the VIP thing for Puppy; it seems rather circular to represent Puppy at my second and final VIP experience of 2023.

While I’m past the point of dressing for a show with any preoccupation of how others will perceive me, it’s always kind of validating (in a sometimes weird way) when someone pays you a compliment, no matter how fleeting.

The VIP guide was named Joe, and he was a friendly fellow, maintaining composure even when being bombarded with questions and trying to see that everyone gathered was accounted for (everyone received the 4 variant versions of the flexi-disc for the new single, “Cooler Than Mars,” along with a VIP lanyard).

While the email notification told the VIPs to gather outside the venue at 4:30, we weren’t granted access until an hour later. I didn’t mind too much, since the sun was getting lower in the sky and my sweaty carcass was beginning to dry off naturally. (Still felt plenty gross, though.)

The whole idea behind the “In Your Space” mini-tour was for L7 to hit a handful of venues (9 in total) that offered a more intimate, club-like appeal. Once inside the Wonder Bar, I realized just how much it fit the description. Basically: no matter where you stood (or, in the case of the bar area, sat), you’d be pretty close to the band. I had a good feeling about the night’s performance as I huddled near the slanted corner-stage with the rest of the VIPs.

Pretty sure the Wonder Bar has a smaller capacity than Baltimore’s Metro Gallery…which is one of the smaller-sized clubs where I check out shows. (That said, it would’ve been very cool to see L7 play there, too!)

There was some amusing banter among the band as they debated which song to play (“Drama,” off of The Beauty Process: Triple Platinum).

Following that, the VIPs lined up for photo ops with band, and access to the merch table was granted. I picked up a few things and hustled back to the AirBnB to drop them off before returning to the boardwalk in search of sustenance.

By this time, the sun was starting to set, so the weather was a bit of a conundrum – hot if you were in the path of that blinding neon egg yolk; cool if you kept in the shade. The boardwalk establishments helped me stay in the latter camp.

By providence, I found myself the last customer at a trailer offering typical “American” fare (simple-to-elaborate hot dog, hamburger, and chicken options), got some chicken strips and fries (so fresh they charred my mouth), and alternated bites with chugs from a bottle of Gatorade (when you’re old, outta shape, and easily winded, ya gotta restore those electrolytes!).

The trailer was located, rather fittingly, next to a sadly ignored miniature golf course. I perched on a bench, my attention going back and forth between the waves crashing on the beach and the people passing on the boardwalk. The interesting thing about people-watching, even in the off-season, is that everyone is too wrapped up in their individual circumstances to be bothered by anybody else. (There’s a bit of that unspoken, city-dwelling, “stay out of my way and we’ll be okay” mentality, though most people who passed seemed more content than your typical urban dwellers. I liked that.)

Once I finished my meal, I trekked over to Wonder Bar and was granted early entry; most of the folks I’d interacted with during the VIP portion were already inside, pressed against the front of the stage. Ozzy and Donna #1 tried to wave me over, but I was content to hang back.

That said, as the room filled in and the daytime was replaced by darkness and the opening band – Tarah Who? – prepped for their set, I migrated forward a bit. I was hard-pressed to picture any sort of rambunctious, rowdy behavior occurring in such a tiny venue (after 20+ years of attending shows, one gets a certain “vibe” for a place and its patrons, even if it’s a first-time visit).

A combination of the excitement in the room and the ferocious energy of the performers made Tarah Who?’s set an appropriately rousing warm-up for L7. I even picked up some of their merch after the show.

L7 took the stage around 9, and something I’ve loved about them – since “rediscovering” them about a decade ago – is how electric their performances are. Some bands become complacent as the years wear on, losing the visceral verve that made people sit up and take notice in the first place.

Hey, I know we’re all getting older, but…

The times I saw L7 perform in Philly, I was taken aback by their energy and the tightness of their musicianship. As of 2025, the band has been around for a staggering 40 years, but there are no signs that their energy or vitriol is flagging. Donita Sparks remains front-and-center with her snarky sense of humor and social conscience, and the rest of the band – drummer Dee Plakas; guitarist Suzi Gardner; and bassist Jennifer Finch – match each other’s energy in a way that radiates a sense of comfort and camaraderie, which only adds to the experience of seeing these components jell in a live setting.

Add to this the rarity of seeing such a seasoned band return to a small-scale performance setting, and their 90-minute set was nothing short of a righteous trip where the musicians responded in kind to the crowd’s enthusiastic cheers and applause.

As an aside, The Beauty Process is my favorite L7 album, so I was happy to record a snippet of “Drama” during their set proper.

The energy was palpable, and I loved every second of their set except…

Remember “Pretend We’re Dead”? I do. It’s the band’s biggest hit from when their initial popularity was at its peak. I remember recording it off the radio (back when the radio was a viable way to discover new music).

Anyway: “Pretend We’re Dead” is one of those breakthrough songs that has a 99.9% chance of being played during every L7 performance. And I don’t mind that. Like NIN’s “Closer,” it’s one of those tracks that raises the pulse of the room once everybody collectively recognizes the initial beats.

And the crowd at Wonder Bar was no exception, cheering and whooping and applauding as the band went into it.

All was well until a concrete-block dipshit of a guy started doing his impersonation of a collapsing Greek column, leaning and bumping into those around him, much to the chagrin of those who were actually trying to watch the band. This action encouraged some other (male) dipshits to start a pit in the confined, tight quarters between the sound board and the stage.

The band kept playing, with an unamused Donita imploring security to take some sort of action.

As the concrete-block dipshits were to my immediate right, I did what I’ve done at many a show where I’ve found myself on the fringe of a pit: steeled my left leg firmly in place, and leaned right with my forearm horizontal at shoulder-height. As the dipshits bobbed and pushed and bumped, I pushed back while managing to maintain my spot. Nothing sucks worse than being caught off-guard by that shit, and turning the people next to you into unsuspecting dominoes.

Security must’ve intervened before the song was over, as that outbreak was a one-and-done.

Something happened after this that I’ve never experienced before: the well-dressed gentleman to my left (accompanied by a beautiful redhead) tapped my arm and extended his hand. I shook it.

“Thank you,” he said.

So my efforts were not in vain!

When the show let out, I crossed paths with Eli, asking what he thought of the performance, to which he nodded and uttered enthusiastic sentiments (I can’t remember the exact words anymore).

As I climbed back onto the boardwalk, the night breeze in full and refreshing effect, I walked briskly on the wooden planks, taking fleeting notice of the few establishments that were still open after 10:30 and basking in how the stresses of the day had washed away.

It sounds cheesy, but live music is a magical thing.

I glanced left at the tide rolling lazily in and out, wondering how far a person would need to walk out to sea before they would cease to be visible.

I returned to the AirBnB and slept comfortably once my excitement wound down. I took a shower the next morning, gathered my belongings, and checked out, making a brief stop at the King of Prussia Service Plaza for a bathroom break and a large iced white chocolate mocha from Starbucks before concluding my journey home.

(Header photo from the L7 website)