Photography by Chris Becker Jr.
Words by Megan Cahn

I was tired, I didn’t want to go—one of those commitments made too long ago when I was well-rested, bright eyed, and hopeful. I just wanted to nurse my Friday night hangover on the couch. And usually I would succumb to such an urge, but I had heard enough about this guy, this King Khan, to drag my sorry ass to the subway and head into the city. And thank God I did—that little man got me dancing more than I had all summer—and that wasn’t even the half of it.

When I got there, I noticed him right away. I mean it was kind of hard not to—he may or may not have been the only Indian man in the Mercury Lounge that night, but he most certainly was the only Indian man wearing a silver rhinestone head dress chucking half full plastic cups of beer at the opening act. And the truth is: he made that band’s performance just by rocking it out in the front row.

The friend I was with went to see the band in Connecticut the night before (yes, they’re that good that he travelled to the suburbia state to make sure he saw them two nights in a row) and ran into the front-man in a grimy bathroom washing that shiny crown in the sink while muttering to himself that it had been a while.

Well he certainly does get sweaty—at that moment he was making his cute platinum blonde friend smell the wrath of it from his armpit.  She wasn’t phased, it might as well have been a pat on the shoulder or a handshake. And after she breathed out his, I’m sure, sour fumes, she reached in her bag and pulled out a tiny white pill shaped object to which his only reflex was obviously to say “Ahh.” For his purposes it could have been an Altoid, but for mine it was so much more. Like a delicate nymph she placed the object sweetly on his tongue and gave him an innocent, you’re done for it, glance. And after that, they went on stage, and everything changed.

Snakes, Darth Vadar, flames, cheerleaders, capes, nakedness. 11 people crowded onto a small platform dressed like they were attending a whacked out luau in honor of their whacked out God. He screeched out his soul with brass backup, a fiery pompom in hand dancer, not to mention the standard bass, guitar, and drums. It could have been 1962 the way those tunes seeped into the audience making everyone twist and shout—it could have been Burning Man the way he made his costume live art on stage—our psychedelic Indian James Brown.

It’s just what you want, or at least just what I wanted—to be entertained fully—enthralled. His onstage antics went from dirty diatribes to burning money to stripping down and letting his belly hang out. But it all would’ve been simply gratuitous if it wasn’t paired with such good fucking music that made you not even realize you’re moving every muscle in your body to the pulsating beat over and over again. Damn he’s got soul, and damn is everyone enjoying it.

Where did this guy come from? And where did this night come from when all I wanted to do was sit at home and watch bad TV? Sweat dripped from me, as it dripped from him, as it dripped from everyone, as my friend kept looking back at me with his “I told you this would be amazing, you little King Khan virgin” look. Yes it was my first time, but like any good trip, it certainly would not be my last. And for lack of a better if-I-was-an-actual-music-writer word, it was, amazing. And I would recommend you all go see that fucker, King Khan, and those Shrines, next time they’re in town.

Photography by Chris Becker Jr.