I never wanted to write this down. I just wanted to eat some mushrooms and see a McDonald’s-themed Black Sabbath cover band. It was a damp January night in San Jose—let’s not think too hard.
But then — mid-show — nightmare Ronald McDonald pulled his underwear out of his pants, Zoolander style, and the weighty aegis of responsibility descended upon me. People need to know about Mac Sabbath.
I’ve never been a Black Sabbath fan, and I don’t plan on becoming one. I know the three songs most people know. I like the one in which he’s on the train.
My ignorance didn’t matter. You don’t need to know anything about Ozzy Osbourne or Mayor McCheese to enjoy yourself at a Mac Sabbath show. All you need to know is that backstage, before the set, someone made 1) the choice to lift a humongous hamburger helmet onto their head; and 2) the decision to fucking rock.
Computer themed? Hack Sabbath. Sailing themed? Tack Sabbath. Zack themed? Zack Sabbath. The gimmick is immaterial. The commitment is everything. And Mac Sabbath — each band member dressed as a twisted McDonald’s-land character, tearing their way through Black Sabbath’s greatest hits — fully commits.
After eating mushrooms, our trio navigated on Saturday night to San Jose, under the freeway and past the now-darkened beige office blocks that the city, for reasons I’ve never understood, can’t help but keep building. (Maybe someday a city planner, in a fit of wild profligacy, will approve one in taupe.)
Then we headed down lamp-spangled 1st Street, past the skinny jeans smoking outside Cafe Stritch, to the Ritz, our venue. Even for those unimpressed by San Jose’s admittedly limp nightlife, the Ritz is a gorgeous, black-and-red-bedecked space that’s worth a visit—that is, if you can find a band you like in their eclectic punk/metal lineup. Who exactly goes out of their way to attend a Mac Sabbath show? Apart from myself and company, I still can’t answer that satisfactorily.
By the time we were inside, our crew was slightly twisted. The bartender clearly (?) hated us. Disembodied clown heads shot lasers into my beer. More clowns, smaller clowns, spray fog. Red and yellow lighting everywhere. Frontman Ronald McDonald goaded the crowd with a corny Birmingham accent and even worse jokes. Human hands emerged from Grimace’s purple, googly-eyed body, and they began to play the bass. Mayor McCheese was on guitar, his hamburger helmet tusked like a boar, while the Hamburglar spun sticks in the back.
We were standing above the pit, giggling about nothing. I was trying not to slip on my own puddle of cider. I had to pee, but the Ritz’s bathroom is just off stage left. As I walked to the front of the crowd, I could feel the heavy vibes of the audience’s attention — aimed just shy of me, at the band, I tell myself. All the eyeballs, with just the slightest shift, could vaporize me instantly. You might say that I was…paranoid.
Up close, this is the highest-production-quality cover band I’ve ever seen. The costumes, the theatrics, the bits and—for God’s sake—the music are all spot on. These guys shredded, and I could barely hear the lyrics. I know they were incredible, though. “I Am Iron Man”? No, “I Have Frying Pan.” Where Black Sabbath sang cheeseball lyrics about Satan and the occult, Mac Sabbath’s lyrics highlight the horrors of factory farming and GMOs with about the same level of analytical depth. Ronald was wearing yellow light gloves, and he was waving his hands. It took me a minute to recognize the Golden Arches blazing through the fog.
In the era of the superstar EDM DJ, cover bands are more relevant than ever. $50 for a .wav file? Or $20 to see Ronald McDonald perform minor magical illusions with dick-shaped balloons? I know my choice. Again, I am entirely ignorant, but I would hazard a guess that Black Sabbath does not currently rock as hard as they did 40 years ago. Mac Sabbath, however, is in their USDA prime. (Calling them a “cover band” is almost inaccurate. It’s like eating a pickle and calling it a poor excuse for a cucumber. You’re missing the point.)
Not only do they play the greatest hits; Mac Sabbath plays the greatest bits. Ronald bit the head off a bat and then puked into a red enamel bucket. He was going to throw the puke onto the crowd! But wait, it’s confetti! Corny as hell? Yes, but again, the commitment is maximal.
Now I recognize that any claim about experiencing transcendent music and creativity while on psychedelics is suspicious. Rightly so. Anyone who’s read their weed guy’s poetry knows that drugs don’t so much reveal artistic greatness as lower artistic standards.
A Mac Sabbath show benefits from a goofy magic-mushroom indulgence, though. They’re fucking around, but they’re serious about it. Whatever the band is doing — and no one would mistake it for high art — it is very entertaining.
People talk about creativity like it’s magic. It’s not. It’s just the results of imagination and play. What happens when I put this here? How about here? Why there? Why not? Creativity—imaginative play without judgment—is arbitrary and amoral. (Hence why our dreams can be so terrifying.) You don’t know the effects of a creative move until you make it. Anything is worth trying, if only to see what happens.
Creativity starts anywhere and, with the right attitude, lets you off somewhere interesting. Is that place necessarily good or worthwhile? Hell no. That’s usually where artistic judgment and editing come in. But you can’t judge your way to discovering something new. Your imagination and your play offer it up to you.
But the things your imagination conjures might be juvenile, ridiculous and embarrassing. Something risking mockery—something like, say, a McDonald’s-themed Black Sabbath cover band. Perhaps the “better” judgment of lesser artists would have immediately vetoed the whole stupid concept.
Here Mac Sabbath reveal their creative trick. To pull of a ridiculous concept like this without being laughed off the stage, you need a ridiculous level of commitment. To achieve that level, you’ve got to have the technical chops — in music, design, effects and just pure showmanship — to back it up. Which they do.
With this creative formula, Mac Sabbath could have gotten away with almost anything. And this is what they chose? You’re goddamn right. A stupid pun reified through sheer commitment into powerful and extremely entertaining rock and roll.
When the show ended, we collected a sweaty friend from the circle pit and headed for hot dogs on the street. I ate a roasted jalapeño in one bite and wept all the way home.
