We couldn't get over how nice everyone was. At one point Dallis was trying to get a picture, but was tapped on the shoulder by a juggalo who told him to get closer for a better angle. It was uncharacteristic of the pretense among the crowd at a typical Bay Area show.
Sure, my jaw dropped when I finally deciphered that one of the opening act's lyrics that I was bopping my head to was, "dead girls don't say no," but why is it that I give fellow Detroiter DJ Assault a pass when I laugh hysterically at his raunchy sampled lyrics like "suck my mutha-fucking dick," or consider "Ass 'n Titties" to be anthemic? Am I a reverse racist, or is it simply taste in music and the understanding that you don't have to believe in the lyrics or take them to heart, kill people with a hatchet, etc.?
Shock value and entertainment are nothing new here. Witnessing the unrelenting Faygo shower (Faygo "pop" is from Michigan and comes in a variety of weird flavors) is like being a kid on the Fourth of July watching fireworks. Scary clowns dressed in glittered gowns dance on stage and shake two-liter bottles, letting the candy-scented foam spray onto the audience as it shimmers in the light, and it is a true spectacle. The takeaway: juggalos are the salt of the Earth.