rewrite this content and keep HTML tags Anton Newcombe performs with his band, The Brian Jonestown Massacre, at the Warfield in San Francisco on Oct. 10, 2023.Ariana Bindman/SFGATE56-year-old Anton Newcombe does not like taking orders from his audience. “I don’t go to Dunkin’ Donuts and tell you what to do, motherf—ker,” he hisses into the microphone. Aging hippie revivalists in the crowd cheer while his six other bandmates stand behind him, politely taking swigs of wine from the bottle. I’m at the Warfield watching The Brian Jonestown Massacre, and the audience, it seems, finally got what it wanted. Formed in San Francisco in 1990, BJM is a seven-piece psych-rock outfit that’s released dozens of albums since its inception and operates its own independent record label. Forty members have come and gone over the last 33 years, but Newcombe, its mercurial founder, has always remained at the helm. These days, the band tours around the world and plays venues seven days a week — but early in their career, they struggled to achieve mainstream success. One of the things that held them back was Newcombe’s volatile stage antics, which were famously captured in the 2004 documentary “Dig!” In the chaotic 107-minute-long film, Newcombe — who’s long since curbed his heroin addiction — is portrayed as a human trainwreck in a billowy button-down shirt. “You f—king broke my sitar, motherf—ker,” he spits during one onstage brawl with his bandmates. When he wasn’t instigating fights or threatening his audience, he was sending The Dandy Warhols neon-wrapped shotgun shells with band members’ names on them.AdvertisementArticle continues below this ad“People wound up going to live shows just to see if Anton was going to punch his bass player or if Anton was going to walk out on the show,” the film narrates. These days, the atmosphere in BJM’s green room is a far cry from the mutiny that was put on display almost 20 years ago. Band members unpack clothes, barefoot, while others play pool or hang out on the couch. “I’m not in the entertainment business,” Newcombe tells me, equating the industry to going to Taco Bell for a seven-layer burrito. He’s stage-ready, wearing layers of Tibetan silver necklaces and a wide-brim hat stuffed with bird feathers. As he nurses a drink, he tells me about the collapse of the record industry in the ’90s, Elon Musk and his personal relationship with Anthony Bourdain. In the 2021 documentary “Roadrunner,” it was revealed that Bourdain’s favorite song was written by the band — and has become almost synonymous with his dark interior world. AdvertisementArticle continues below this adReleased in 1996, “Anemone” is a sleazy, sensual masterpiece driven by hypnotic bass lines, fluttering tambourines and breathy vocals imbued with longing. It’s the sonic equivalent of waking up alone in your messy studio apartment, relighting a half-smoked cigarette and pouring another shot while thinking about the person who left in the middle of the night. “I could be giving you love, but you’re not around,” the singer croons.To this day, it’s still a mystery to Newcombe why so many people — 67 million listeners on Spotify alone — related to a hazy, 5-minute song off an album with a title like “Their Satanic Majesties’ Second Request,” a gag riffing on the name of a 1967 Rolling Stones album. What he does know is that powerful art speaks to people, no matter who they are or the trials they’re going through. “People have a whole spectrum of human emotions, so you want it to resonate in some way with their life and their experience without telling what it means to them,” he says. AdvertisementArticle continues below this adJoel Gion, the group’s longtime tambourine player, performs at the Warfield in San Francisco as part of the Brian Jonestown Massacre’s 2023 tour. Ariana Bindman/SFGATEWhen Newcombe first found out that Bourdain was a fan, he was confused. He says that back when the author had a blog, he wrote that he was looking for his “favorite band” in San Francisco, though the original post has since vanished into the ether, one more part of the myth of both Bourdain and Brian Jonestown Massacre. “I wrote back and said, ‘Dumb s—t, we haven’t lived there in a long time.’ I had no idea who he was or what he was doing,” says Newcombe, who now lives in Berlin. In between questions, he frequently sidetracks, lamenting the state of America and the darkness and delusion of tech billionaires. “He’s horrible,” he says of Musk. “He has like, nine kids with multiple women … he has small dick energy and also his respect for those people as individuals and as identities is zero.”But they’re here to play a show, and it was time for them to take the stage. AdvertisementArticle continues below this adTheir performance is everything you might expect: heavy, enchanting and steeped in mysticism. When they play “Pish,” the college-age kids in leather and fringe sway in unison, perhaps grasping for a time they never knew. “The world is trying to drag you down and broke you into a hole,” Newcombe sings during “Fudge,” “but I’m gonna find you and beat it baby with my soul.”He stops the set, and instructs the people in the audience to turn to each other and wish each other peace — but not before threatening to kick out some poor flub in a gray shirt first. “I’m not gonna forget you,” he says before cooling down. Joel Gion, the group’s longtime tambourine player, gives him a little kiss. The band resumes playing as the audience roars, delighting in the chaos.
Chaos reigns at infamous San Francisco rock band’s live show
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